
Class "PS 5<*5 

Book H S iV s 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



THE NEWARK 
ANNIVERSARY POEMS 



Mr^^H-i' l^nwZ^J* 



"fL<t*i*^iiL-<%>&r4f 



THE NEWARK 
ANNIVERSARY POEMS 

Winners in the Poetry Competition 

HELD IN CONNECTION WITH 
THE 250th ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION 

OF THE 

FOUNDING OF THE CITY OF NEWARK, NEW JERSEY 
MAY TO OCTOBER, 1916 

TOGETHER WITH 

THE OFFICIAL NEWARK CELEBRATION ODE 

AND OTHER ANNIVERSARY POEMS 

— GRAVE AND GAY 

Introductory Chapters and a Plan for a 

National Anthology of American Poetry 

By HENRY WELLINGTON WACK 

Editor of The Netuarker 

THE COMMITTEE OF ONE HUNDRED 
FRANKLIN MURPHY 

Chairman 



NEW YORK 

LAURENCE J. GOMME 

1917 






Copyrighted by The Trustees of the 
Committee of One Hundred 1917 



AUG -i 1913 

V 

>G!.A473070 



TO 

PRESENT AND FUTURE GENERATIONS 

OF NEWARK CITIZENS 

to their highest sense of civic duty; 
their responsible social and political 
participation in the city's life; to 
all sister cities inclined to adopt the 
Newark Idea of a Fellowship of 
Cities throughout the nation, this 
frail volume of patriotic and in- 
spirational verse 
is 

HOPEFULLY DEDICATED 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/newarkanniversarOOnewa 



"Ye have done well to hang harps in the wind." 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Foreword vii 

The Judges of the Newark Poetry Compe- 
tition xi 

Historical and Literary and Publicity Com- 
mittees xiii 

Early Influences in Newark's Origin . . i 

Early Puritan Poetry 9 

Civic Celebrations as a Community Force . 15 

The Newark Celebration 18 

The Sunny Side of the Newark Poetry 
Competition 21 

A Plea and a Plan for a National Anthol- 
ogy of American Poetry 31 

The Official Newark Celebration Ode — 

Lyman Whitney Allen 43 

The Poetry of the Newark Pageant and 

Masque 52 

The Newark Prize Poems 61 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Other Newark Anniversary Poems — Grave 
and Gay 109 

Appendices: 

I Conditions of the Newark Poetry 

Competition 163 

II Suggestions to Poets 168 

III Biographies of Prize Winners . . 171 

IV Names of Members of All Commit- 

tees 180 



FOREWORD 

WHEN the Newark Poetry Compe- 
tition was announced in November, 
1915 (see Appendix), the Committee con- 
templated the publication of a volume 
which should not only include the poems 
winning the Newark prizes, but a selection 
of others which, though ranking high, had 
not come within the limited number of 
awards. In so large a group of competi- 
tive entries there were bound to be many 
poems of practically equal merit, the prizes 
being necessarily awarded to some for vir- 
tues offset by the significant excellence in 
others. Indeed, there were many such cases 
in the final consideration of the best hun- 
dred poems submitted. The Committee 
was, therefore, glad of the opportunity to 
create a permanent Honor Roll of the New- 
ark Anniversary Poems which seemed 
worthy of a place thereon. 

This hope and intention were, however, 

vii 



FOREWORD 

abandoned after the awards had been an- 
nounced in December, 191 6, because of the 
numerous objections made by the authors of 
some of the best poems which, for special 
reasons had failed to win prizes. For in- 
stance, where poems of the same style and 
character were practically of equal merit, 
only that entry which best served the larger 
purpose of the competition received an 
award. 

These objections were a surprise to the 
Committee and, in their final effect, may be 
a disappointment to the authors who were 
willing to have their unsuccessful, but meri- 
torious, poems included in the volume of 
our anniversary verse. Nevertheless, after 
the withdrawal of a considerable number 
of poems by some of the best known poets in 
the country, and the necessity, therefore, of 
planning a smaller volume, bereft of many 
desirable poems of distinctive grace and 
charm, the Committee was, by the sheer 
force of these and related circumstances, 
compelled to confine the present work to the 
poems here presented — a worthy lot, despite 
viii 



FOREWORD 

those big and little upsettings which civic 
celebrations, involving four thousand four 
hundred and fifty actors and nine hundred 
fecund poets, have a way of imposing upon 
anxious committees and their ardent execu- 
tives. 

The beautiful celebration ode by Dr. Ly- 
man Whitney Allen, author of "Lincoln's 
Pew," "The House of Mary," "Shake- 
speare," "The New America," "Our Sister 
of Letters," "A Parable of the Rose," 
"Abraham Lincoln" (the New York Herald 
$1,000 prize poem), "The Triumph of 
Love," etc., was written upon the official re- 
quest of the Committee of One Hundred, 
and is, withal, an important contribution to 
the patriotic literature of the nation. It 
was first read by the author at the Dedica- 
tion Exercises held at Proctor's Palace 
Theatre, Newark, on May 1,191 6, upon the 
formal opening of Newark's impressive 
celebration, before a distinguished audience 
composed of the official, literary, and social 
life of New Jersey, New York and Con- 
necticut. Two hundred members of the 

ix 



FOREWORD 

Historical Societies of the country attended 
as delegates, together with a large delega- 
tion from the Authors Club of New York 
and the scientific, religious and civic bodies 
of the East 

The other poems included in the volume 
are those which appeared from month to 
month in The Newarker, the Committee's 
official journal, published from November, 
1915, to November, 1916, as a record of an- 
niversary events. 

Finally, there are the poems of Newark's 
Historic Pageant and Masque, the author of 
which is Mr. Thomas Wood Stevens of the 
Carnegie Institute of Technology, Pitts- 
burgh. 

It will be the hope of the Committee that 
the publication, in this compact form, of the 
Newark Anniversary Poems, may be in- 
spirational, not only to Newark citizens, but 
to sister cities in their aims at civic better- 
ment and that greater ideal which the writer 
has elsewhere referred to as The Fellowship 
of Cities. 

Newark, March 15, 1917. 

x 



THE JUDGES OF THE NEWARK 
POETRY COMPETITION 

THE following accepted the Commit- 
tee's invitation to serve as judges in 
this competition : 

From Newark: Hon. Frederic Adams, 
Judge of the Circuit Court, State of New 
Jersey; Hon. Thos. L. Raymond, Counsel- 
lor-at-Law, and Mayor of Newark; Miss 
Margaret Coult, Head of English Depart- 
ment, Barringer High School; William S. 
Hunt, Associate Editor, Newark Sunday 
Call. 

At large: Professor John C. Van Dyke, 
Professor History of Art, Rutgers College ; 
Lecturer Columbia, Harvard, Princeton; 
Author; Editor: "College Histories of 
Art"; "History of American Art"; — New 
Brunswick, New Jersey. 

Thomas L. Masson (Tom Masson), Lit- 
erary Editor Life; Author; Editor "Hu- 

xi 



THE JUDGES 

morous Masterpieces of American Litera- 
ture." 

Theodosia Garrison, Author: "The Joy of 
Life and other Poems"; "Earth Cry and 
other Poems"; Contributor to Magazines. 



Xll 



COMPILED AND EDITED UNDER THE JOINT DIRECTION 
OF THE 

PUBLICITY COMMITTEE 

AND THE 

HISTORICAL AND LITERARY COMMITTEE 

OF THE 

COMMITTEE OF ONE HUNDRED 

Historical and Literary Committee 

Rev. Joseph Fulford Folsom, Chairman 

Rt. Rev. Edwin S. Lines, D.D. 

Mrs. Henry H. Dawson 

Dr. Samuel E. Robertson 

William T. Hunt 

Henry Wellington Wack 

Publicity Committee 

William B. Kinney, Chairman 
John L. O'Toole 
John L. Carroll 
Morris R. Sherrerd 
William J. McConnell 
George D. Smith 
James F. Connelly 



xm 



EARLY INFLUENCES IN 
NEWARK'S ORIGIN 

BEFORE considering the Newark of to- 
day and her recent inspirational enter- 
prises to mark the anniversary of her 250th 
birthday, it may afford us a broader view 
of her significance and stature as a virile 
and productive city, if we look back a mo- 
ment upon conditions affecting her origin; 
upon the simpler, ruder life of the period of 
her meagre beginnings on the shore of the 
Passaic. 

Here we have to do with the destiny of a 
live American city, founded under an intol- 
erant Puritan spirit, but built by the tena- 
cious fibre of American manhood. 

The founders of the City of Newark, 
New Jersey, in 1666, constituted a small 
group of sturdy men, devout women and an 
eager band of New England children. 



EARLY INFLUENCES 

They had sailed from the shores of Con- 
necticut in a French caraval with the deter- 
mined purpose to create a new habitat for 
their industry and beliefs, their narrow faith 
and its somewhat bigoted impositions. 
They bartered their wampum for the site 
of Newark with the Lenni Lenape Indians; 
built their huts around a house of worship 
and invoked God and man to do the rest. 

The modern histriographer finds the 
event rich in romantic and heroic detail. 
Shaw, Atkinson, Urquhart, Folsom, 
Swayze, Pierson and Stevens have re- 
corded the exploits of that time in a man- 
ner to preserve their glamour for all suc- 
ceeding generations. The series of histor- 
ical articles by David L. Pierson, which 
appeared from time to time during the cele- 
bration in the Newark Evening News and 
attracted wide-spread attention, are soon to 
appear in book form, entitled "Narratives 
of Newark from the Days of Its Founding." 
This work will be of inestimable value. 
Northern New Jersey shares with old Am- 
sterdam, across the Hudson, the glories and 

2 



EARLY INFLUENCES 

romantic traditions of the Nation's early 
life and struggle. 

The birth of Newark fell upon a bar- 
ren period in American letters. The Cav- 
alier ruled Virginia and pursued his ad- 
venturous and luxurious career of aristo- 
cratic sway and hospitality. Massachu- 
setts, becoming the citadel of the frugal 
Puritan, extended her influence and work 
with a fervor far more spiritual. Their 
modes of life were the antithesis of each 
other. There was no substantial artistic im- 
pulse in either the South or the North to 
produce a significant literature; men were 
aglow with the lure of material matters, the 
crude cultivation of unwieldy estates, ques- 
tions of trade and traffic, the government 
of slaves, the planting of tobacco, and the 
winning of the wilderness. There was lit- 
tle culture of importance in that rude en- 
vironment; but there were abundant spirit 
and energy for achievement in a region 
where the heart and soul of man had to 
meet the day's work in a brave and steadfast 
fashion. 

3 



EARLY INFLUENCES 

In the northern colonies the lure of a na- 
tional life was blazing its trail out of New 
England and into New Jersey, Delaware 
and Pennsylvania — where the Puritans, 
Dutch, English and Swedes were following 
the urge of man's aspirations on the land 
and sea. In 1652 Massachusetts had an- 
nexed Maine towns as far east as Casco in 
her reach for power, and Stuyvesant con- 
quered New Sweden (Delaware) in 1655. 
North Carolina was settled in 1663, and in 
1662 Charles II granted a charter to Con- 
necticut and New Haven. A year later 
Mason and Dixon's line between the North 
and South was begun, and Eliot's Bible for 
the Indians printed. In 1664 New Ams- 
terdam was occupied by the English. 
Science, the handmaiden of civilization, be- 
gan to enlarge the activity and power of 
man's industry. King Philip's War in 
New England and Bacon's rebellion in Vir- 
ginia disturbed the opening of the last quar- 
ter of the seventeenth century, followed 
within a few years (1682) by the founding 
of Philadelphia, the abrogation of Massa- 

4 



EARLY INFLUENCES 

chusetts' charter two years later, the general 
suppression of all charter governments and 
the precipitation of King William's war. 
Then followed the French and English wars 
upon our soil. These were parlous times 
in which Newark crept from the lofty in- 
tentions of a small group of men and women 
to the crude stature of an organized hamlet, 
to become — 250 years later — one of the 
great industrial centers of the country. 

But what of the literature of that time, 
its slow and hindered dissemination, its in- 
fluence on the pioneer life of the American 
colonies? While we take a brief glance at 
the period surrounding the first Newark 
settlement, let us keep in mind the fact that 
Newark was literally founded by church 
secessionists seeking to enforce those tenets 
of their religion which their abandoned 
brethren had liberalized in the Province 
of Connecticut. This broader religious life 
in the Connecticut towns of Branford, Mil- 
ford, Guilford and New Haven had dis- 
turbed the stricter, narrower, more intoler- 
ant members of the old church who had 

5 



EARLY INFLUENCES 

come to found Newark. The little hamlet 
became in fact the site of the last American 
theocracy. 

During the period just before and after 
the settlement of Newark, we see Cromwell 
translating England's power into action, 
while Charles II "squandered it." The 
Thirty Years' War was devastating Ger- 
many while a more sanguinary war was, 
during Newark's anniversary period, at the 
same infernal game in all Europe. It is a 
mere coincidence. At that early time Rich- 
elieu was interpreting the new vision France 
had of herself, and making her the mistress 
of Europe; and later Mazarin and Louis 
XIV amplified and realized his great work. 
That pathetic piece of princely porcelain, 
Charles I, was sliding from his throne to 
stain the headman's block. Shakespeare 
had come and gone, without bequeathing a 
sign of the fame that should attach to his 
name and works. Immortal Milton, pri- 
vate secretary to Cromwell, was writing 
"Paradise Lost," first published in 1667, 
the very year when Newark's little govern- 

6 



EARLY INFLUENCES 

ment assumed orderly significance. What 
may have been of equal interest to those who 
dwelt upon the banks of the beautiful Pas- 
saic of that period of its purity, was the pub- 
lication, in 1653, of Izaak Walton's "Corn- 
pleat Angler." But may we not doubt 
Puritan interest in a book so philosophic of 
physical and mental comfort? 

Between 1660 and 1670 some of the 
world's notable literary and artistic lumi- 
naries flourished in Europe: Corneille, La 
Fontaine, La Rochefoucauld, Madame de 
Sevigne, Moliere, Racine, Boileau and Pas- 
cal in France. Velasquez and Murillo 
were the master painters in Spain. Ber- 
nini the Italian sculptor; Salvator Rosa 
the landscape painter; Huygens the Dutch 
astronomer; Cassini the mathematician, La 
Bruyere and Malebranche, French writers, 
all contributed to that decade which in- 
cluded the founding in Paris of the Gobelin 
Tapestry fabrique by Louis XIV; the con- 
struction of the first reflecting telescope by 
Sir Isaac Newton; the great London Fire 
and Plague in 1666; the independence of 

7 



EARLY INFLUENCES 

Prussia; Poland's great victory under So- 
bieski over the Tartars ; the founding of the 
Royal Society at London (1660) and the 
Academy of Sciences at Paris in 1666. The 
throes of an expanding civilization were 
present throughout the world. Humanity 
was in a restless state, in a mood for revolu- 
tion and adventure, for dissenting from sys- 
tems of worship and government which had 
prevailed. The founding of Newark ap- 
pears to have been inspired by a world im- 
pulse for freedom and independence. 



EARLY PURITAN POETRY 

OF the poetry of the early colonists, 
nothing significant or beautiful ap- 
pears to have found expression. The seven- 
teenth century in America was barren of 
great or even good verse, — as the nineteenth 
and twentieth centuries appraise poetry. 
Except in rare instances, Colonial versifica- 
tion was confined to the Puritan clergy — a 
stiff, gaunt, fleshless verse, as emaciated in 
thought and spirit as in beauty and form. 

The most prolific of the Puritan poets — 
so-called — was Mrs. Anne Bradstreet, who 
was born in England in 1612, emigrated to 
New England in 1630 and settled near An- 
dover, Massachusetts, about 1644. Her 
poems, published in London in 1650, evoked 
some praise; but critics of the nineteenth 
and twentieth centuries would not admit 
that the industrious lady had written any 
appreciable body of poetry. However, she 

9 



EARLY PURITAN POETRY 

seems to have impressed a prim personality 
and lugubrious talent upon her contempo- 
raries and to have gained some favor with 
her intermittently rheumatic rhymes. She 
turned many a clerical head into what, at 
this remote day, we would describe as a silly 
state. For instance, there was the Rev. John 
Rogers who, in appreciative ecstasy of the 
ravishing effects Mrs. Bradstreet's poems 
had upon him, unfortunately wrote this 
mawkish metaphor: 

Thus weltering in delight, my virgin mind 
Admits a rape. 

If any of the 1916 Newark poets had writ- 
ten such stuff, we would have exhibited him 
at our Exposition as a rhymster too irre- 
sponsible to be at large. 

In his excellent analysis of the scant prod- 
uct of seventeenth century American 
verse writers (he justly avoids designating 
them poets) Professor Wm. P. Trent thus 
sums up the lady's poetic merit: 

"In substance her earlier verses are al- 
most completely valueless. From the point 
10 



EARLY PURITAN POETRY 

of view of style her poetry interests only the 
technical student, who will notice some bal- 
anced couplets, some curious rhymes, and at 
least one tribute to Queen Elizabeth that de- 
serves to be memorable for its infelicity:" 

" 'Mongst hundred hecatombs of roaring verse, 
Mine bleating stands before thy royal hearse." 

Our first native-born bard was the 
"learned schoolmaster and physician and ye 
renowned poet of New England," Benja- 
min Tompson, born at Braintree, Massa- 
chusetts, in 1642. He died at Roxbury in 
1714 — "Mortuus sed immortalis," as his 
epitaph assures us who stop, look and won- 
der. His "New England's Crisis," an epic 
of King Philip's War, was a commonplace 
performance which a third-rate New York 
monthly Cosmic Squeal would endow with 
a rejection slip at the second stanza. 

The zenith of our Colonial poetics ap- 
pears to have been attained by Michael 
Wigglesworth ( 163 1- 1705), described as 
the typical poet of Puritan New England. 
After graduating from Harvard, he entered 
11 



EARLY PURITAN POETRY 

the ministry, cheerfully maintained his 
poor health, married several devoted women 
— one at a time, remember! — studied medi- 
cine and tried to heal others, who could not 
cure himself. 

The author of The Day of Doom — A 
Poetical Description of the Last Judgment, 
evidently had qualities superior to the 
humor of his muse, for many loved and ad- 
mired him. His chief work first appeared 
in 1662, "and consisted of a poetical version 
in the style of Sternhold and Hopkins, of 
the texts of Scripture having reference to 
the awful, but to the Puritan mind, con- 
genial subject." It has been sarcastically 
referred to as the New England Inferno. 
It contains very little near poetry, as wit- 
ness the following speech of Wigglesworth's 
God to the "Reprobate Infants" — a speech 
that concludes: 

You sinners are, and such a share 

As sinners may expect, 
Such you shall have, for I do save 

None but my own elect. 
12 



EARLY PURITAN POETRY 

Yet to compare your sin with their 

Who lived a longer time, 
I do confess yours is much less, 

Though every sin's a crime. 

A crime it is, therefore in bliss 

You may not hope to dwell; 
But unto you I shall allow 

The easiest room in Hell. 

What shall we think of a zeal that would 
consign infants to the "easiest room in Hell" 
— even poetically? If this was the accepted 
sentiment of the seventeenth century we owe 
a debt of gratitude to that force which lib- 
erated the Puritan mind in succeeding years. 
It is a far cry from the "poetry" of Wiggles- 
worth to that of Swinburne and Edgar Allan 
Poe. 

But the object of this survey is not to 
analyze the quality of the sparse verse which 
soothed or irritated the minds of the Puri- 
tans who came out of New England to settle 
upon the shores of the Passaic. We merely 
intend indicating that no significant poetry 
of beauty was created in America during 
the seventeenth century. Such poetry as 
13 



EARLY PURITAN POETRY 

the Puritans had access to was the English 
poetry of the period following the birth, life 
and death of Shakespeare, Milton, Bunyan, 
Butler, Dryden and Waller. That they 
shut their minds to Shakespeare and opened 
them to Milton and Bunyan, is still an un- 
settled controversy. There was such a stoi- 
cism, such a grim and ascetic attitude against 
beauty, art, romance, against all liberal 
views of life's essence, by Puritans and their 
severities, that few of their latter-day her- 
alds venture to include in their pleasures the 
poetry of the Bard of Avon. There was no 
poetry and little song, save the simplest 
psalms and hymns, accompanying the ori- 
gins of Newark. But there was an ardent 
religious spirit which centered in the First 
Newark Church where the men who 
founded the hamlet composed the last group 
of those Puritans who tried to erect a king- 
dom of God on the American continent. 
Theirs was indeed theocracy's last stand. 



14 



CIVIC CELEBRATIONS AS A MOD- 
ERN COMMUNITY FORCE 

IN recent years city celebrations, historic 
pageants, community enterprises of a so- 
cial, political, civic and aesthetic character, 
have more than ever in our history marked 
the progress of American cities. The citi- 
zen appears to have been galvanized out of 
the indifferent individual whose citizenship 
began and ended with his personal, profes- 
sional or industrial interests. In other 
words, men and women have realized them- 
selves as something infinitely more than 
competitors in the life of the city and its 
gainful opportunities. They have discov- 
ered that they are the city, and that as they 
reach out for higher ideals as citizens, the 
city rises in the plane of progressive munici- 
palities. 

The means by which American communi- 
ties have generated the spirit of this new 
15 



MODERN COMMUNITY FORCE 

social impulse, this higher inspired social 
consciousness, have varied; but the motif in 
much of this work of remodeling the citizen 
for greater uses to himself and the com- 
munity, has been largely the same through- 
out the country. Some have accented the 
spiritual element of community life, more 
than the civic or material; others have by 
reason of their peculiarities in one direction 
or another, put stress on the industrial or the 
aesthetic phases of their inherent problems. 
All, however, have endeavored to vitalize in 
the passive citizen, the dull taxpayer and 
disinterested voter, a sense of civic responsi- 
bility to the city which affords him life's 
opportunities and their attendant terms of 
comfort and happiness. 

St. Louis did much in this respect a few 
years ago by an historic pageant of great 
beauty and impressive spectacle. Other 
cities, many of them in New England, fol- 
lowed in the wake of this splendid way of 
arousing the citizen from his lethargy or 
pulling him from the armchair of his smug 
contentment. The celebrations held by the 
16 



MODERN COMMUNITY FORCE 

cities of the Middle West culminated in 
that superb exposition of the country's 
varied resources — the Panama-Pacific Ex- 
position at San Francisco in 1915. To-day 
we look forward to many civic celebrations 
in all parts of the United States. Their 
ideal is much the same — the awakening of 
the citizen to his full civic duty toward the 
city which sustains him. 



17 



THE NEWARK CELEBRATION 

PSYCHOLOGY has been defined as the 
science of the human soul— -the syste- 
matic knowledge of its powers and func- 
tions. But how shall we define the psychol- 
ogy of a great civic undertaking involving 
half a million souls and their relation to the 
city in which they work and play? 

Perhaps one of the most successful in- 
stances of a new spiritual and civic dawn in 
a city of the first class, where the sources of 
population are variant and the people some- 
what slow to assimilate, is that of the City of 
Newark, New Jersey, which terminated its 
250th anniversary celebration in October, 
1916. 

Newark is essentially a very conservative 
old city. It was founded by Puritans, of a 
rather narrow concept of the truer religion. 
Newark went to church. It worked hard 
and was prone to mind its own business as if 
18 



THE NEWARK CELEBRATION 

nothing else mattered. It was not particu- 
larly conscious of its duty to any one — least 
of all to itself. Its social life had become 
stagnant, largely because it was so busy mak- 
ing money by producing 259 distinct lines 
of manufactures. Finally, the Newarker 
seemed perfectly at ease about strangling the 
other fellow — the fellow who got in his way 
to share or eclipse the prosperity that was 
obviously meant for all. 

To relate even briefly how all this has 
been changed by Newark's wonderful his- 
toric celebration, would carry us far beyond 
the limitations of available space. The big 
fact is now patent in all aspects of Newark's 
life. Newark has in two years become a 
city of metropolitan feeling and stature. 
She has become a community of actively co- 
operating citizens, loyal to the city's best in- 
terests, militant in her defense, earnest, pro- 
gressive, spiritually awakened and greatly 
surcharged with a new civic spirit. 

When two years ago, Newark be^an 
preparations for her long celebration 
riod, she had a population of 381,000. 
19 






THE NEWARK CELEBRATION 

now has 408,000! And Newark is growing 
rapidly. Her schools are amongst the best 
in the country. Her library is one of the 
most useful and progressive. Her park 
system is unsurpassed. Her public-spirited 
men have an intensified interest in the pres- 
ent and a lofty vision of the city's future. 

Civic celebrations, rationally planned and 
ably carried out, yield enormous dividends. 
Newark spent about $400,000, all told, on 
her civic regeneration. There was no re- 
action; there can be none as Newark 
handled her finely conceived affair. 



20 



THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE NEW- 
ARK POETRY COMPETITION 

AMONGST other inspirational features 
of its anniversary program, Newark 
undertook an unusual literary enterprise. 
It offered $1,000 in prizes for poems upon 
the city's 250th anniversary. It invited all 
kinds of poems, from any part of the world, 
on any phase of Newark's historical, indus- 
trial, social, aesthetic or civic life. Odes 
and epics, sonnets, blank verse, ballads, lyr- 
ics, vers libre, songs and satires, limericks 
and jingles, all had opportunity to qualify 
for the thirteen cash awards, divided into a 
first prize of $250; a second of $150, a third 
of $100, and ten of $50 each. All awards 
were based upon the sheer poetic merit of 
the poems submitted, regardless of their 
form. The competition opened in Jan- 
uary and closed in December, 1916. Of 
the 900 odd entries submitted, about 550 
21 



THE SUNNY SIDE 

were of that quality or interest which car- 
ried them to the final consideration of the 
seven judges appointed to read the poems 
and determine their relative merit. Four 
of the judges were drawn from Newark, 
three from the nation. 

Forty-two States and five foreign coun- 
tries participated in the competition, which 
indicates its wide publicity value to the city 
of Newark. 

The highest number of merit points ob- 
tainable was 700. The first prize was won 
by Clement Wood, of New York City, with 
675 points; the second by Mrs. Anna B. 
Mezquida, of San Francisco, with 575 
points; the third by Albert E. Trombly, 
Philadelphia, with 540 points. The fol- 
lowing authors won the ten special prizes of 
$50 each : 

Sayers Coe, Glen Ridge, N. J. ; Katherine 
Baker, Wildwood, N. J.; Haniel Long, 
Pittsburgh, Pa.; Minnie J. Reynolds, West 
Portal, N. J.; Alice Reade Rouse, Coving- 
ton, Ky. ; James H. Tuckley, Irvington, N. 
J.; Berton Braley, New York City; Simon 

22 



THE SUNNY SIDE 

Barr, New York City; Ezra Pound, Lon- 
don, England; Edward N. Teal, Bloom- 
field, N. J. 

A brief view of the humor and pathos of 
this unique enterprise may add leaven to the 
content of this little volume. 

When the poems were first invited, our 
poets did not display an adequate degree of 
fine frenzy. The following jingle was 
thereupon published in The Newarker, of- 
ficial journal of the celebration, and copies 
thereof mailed to verse writers throughout 
the United States: 

COME, ALL YE POETS 

Come, all ye poets, great and small, 
Ye little fat ones and ye tall, 
Ye who so sweetly poetize, 
And ye who sadly advertise 
The fact that even ye can not 
Write aught save merry tommyrot! 

Come join our spring quatrainian band, 
E'en though your feet and meter stand 
Deep in a hexametric pile 
Of gasiambics plucked of style. 

23 



THE SUNNY SIDE 

Remember, Newark's just of age, 
And "poet-lariats," the rage! 

Send in your verse of Newark-town 
Before the June first sun goes down; 
By mail, express or auto vans, 
In bundles, bales or polished cans. 
Just so you sing with poet's grace — 
You all may win this Epic Race. 

This gay little ditty started 'em all over 
the land. Poems began to rain upon us. 
That miserable little screed, hurriedly writ- 
ten by the Editor of The Newarker on a 
street car, did for us what a dignified and 
artistically printed appeal had failed to do. 
It woke the Muse in a cheerful and human 
way, which speaks effectively for the human 
way in all endeavor. 

The judges had a laborious time of it. 
Their score cards are a laconic record of 
poetic conceits. They are in many instances 
the epitaph of poets who, though alive and 
chirping, were poetically as dead as cab- 
bages in December. 

Having invited satires, as well as odes, 

24 



THE SUNNY SIDE 

Newark received many fine, disdainful 
poetic digs from those who would not see 
the idyllic phases of her life. One sour- 
visaged editor wrote: 

What! write a song of Newark Town? 
I say! Do you really mean it? 
Then hail a gaseous factory clown, 
To make your whistles scream it! 

The number of persons, generally normal, 
who believe they are poets, is a source of 
constant amazement, delight and sorrow to 
an editor. An otherwise substantial chunk 
of house-wifely flesh, left her pots and pans 
one day and wrote us this pathetic plaint: 

Kind Sir, please buy my hard wrote rime, 

If not jest now, some uther time, 

I have no grub, the fire is out, 

And my drunk husband's up the spout! 

It wrung the heart of the Committee of 
One Hundred to see this human touch go 
into the Official Waste Basket. 

One wild Manhattan poet, contributor to 
the affinity literature of the breakfast 

25 



THE SUNNY SIDE 

dailies, wrote this hellish little gem of 
Newark: 

Mad as the throb of the drum-beats in hell, 

Mad with the throb of the city am I, 
Mad to buy souls and madder to sell, 
Mad with the price of the city am I, 
Maddened, dishevelled, 
Maddened, bedevilled, 
Mad, on the streets of the city to lie. 

A prisoner in St. Quentin Prison, Cali- 
fornia, a man of education, an acknowl- 
edged composer of ability, formerly a resi- 
dent of Newark, submitted an ode on 
Newark which the prison chaplain who 
transmitted it felt confident would win a 
prize. The story of the author's misfor- 
tune was a good magazine story; but the 
prison-made ode did not survive. 

That philosophic iconoclast, Ezra Pound, 
earlier exponent of the Imagist School of 
Poetic Palpitation, writing from London, 
assaulted our civic sensibilities in a poem 
of violence directed at the head, heart, and 
hands of Newark. Of his poem, one of the 
judges remarked that it is "Captious, arro- 
26 



THE SUNNY SIDE 

gant, hypercritical, but some merit." An- 
other judge cast it into the discard. But it 
won a prize and fits snugly into the ration- 
ale of the present volume. Also there is 
food for thought in our London poet's cate- 
chistic cadences. Let us not begrudge him 
the high appraisal of our poetry judges. 

The competition revealed many contrasts. 
The winner of the first prize with an im- 
pressive chant of a thousand words entitled : 
"The Smithy of God," also submitted the 
following dismal conception of Newark's 
celebration : 

Soldiers, autos shall parade, 
Music blare and poets carol; 

Wine will flow, and lemonade, 
From the barrel. 

That is pretty bad stuff for Q. H. Flaccus 
of Manhattan to have written with his left 
hand and then to have won the first prize 
with his right. "Lemonade from the bar- 
rel!" May the god Bacchus meet this 
citrous fellow somewhere in the Bronx and 
fell him with a drop of wine. 
27 



THE SUNNY SIDE 

A famous American poet, an author whose 
name is known throughout the English- 
speaking world, a singer frequently pub- 
lished and highly paid by American editors, 
submitted an historic ode of nearly 1,000 
words. It is carefully wrought in a serious 
vein. Many of the couplets and stanzes are 
of exceptional charm. 

The. points awarded to this poem were 
only 200 out of 700, about 28^2 per cent, of 
par. This is, perhaps, the surprise of the 
Newark Poetry Competition. It shows 
that when the big men of the poetic world 
are handed a ready-made theme to write 
about, they do not always do themselves 
justice, nor render the subject adequate or 
effective poetic service. There is, of course, 
no serious significance in their failure; nor 
in the fact that a very young poet, more or 
less critical of the present order of life in 
large cities, and lacking that experience of 
life which elder poets may have had, should 
more ably interpret a city to itself and win 
first place in a class of over 900 competitors. 

Another popular poet, whose name is fa- 
28 



THE SUNNY SIDE 

miliar to magazine readers throughout the 
United States, received marks of only 75 
for his entry in the Newark competition. 
Five of the judges sent his poem to the dis- 
card. And yet we read his delightful 
verses monthly in many publications. 

"Keats II," an anonymous author, sub- 
mitted a sonnet on the Newark pageant. It 
was a poet's poem, a thing of grace and sub- 
stance. But the judges awarded it only 250 
points out of 700. "Keats II" then sub- 
mitted that poem anonymously to 12 of the 
leading poets and critics in the country. 
These awarded his sonnet 1025 points out of 
1200. "From this," he facetiously re- 
marked, "we may infer that the Newark 
poetry judges were not the last word on the 
merit of poetry." 

But such is the fate of all poetry — it tastes 
differently in every mind. Nor is a certain 
prevailing taste in a bizarre and incoherent 
form of so-called poetry to be accounted 
for outside the sphere of alienists and ob- 
servation wards. 

Much modern verse, with a lamentable 
29 



THE SUNNY SIDE 

lack of character and clarity, but very audi- 
ble, and defying accepted forms, is impos- 
ing upon the somnolent editor groping for 
the vague and opaque. The free verse 
guild is having its innings and the older 
poetic measures have been put away in moth- 
balls and cotton. Thought is now ap- 
proached from the rear and orchestrated 
with barbaric prosody. The Intellectuals; 
the Cognoscenti; the Dolly Dinkles of the 
cubistic literature ; the weird profundities of 
the Imagists, interpreting the scrap heap of 
mad emotions ; all these have joined the ob- 
scurantists of the obvious and serenaded the 
heights and the abyss with their tatter- 
demalion poetry. The Shade of Democri- 
tus smiles. 

But the New Poetry is not all of this char- 
acter. There is a fresh beauty and rational 
freedom in some of it which augurs well 
for a period when the poetry of the world is 
meeting greater inspirations than have ever 
prevailed in human crises. 



30 



A PLEA FOR A NATIONAL AN- 
THOLOGY OF AMERI- 
CAN POETRY 

IS it not time — especially now, when the 
world is seeking new foundations of 
faith in mankind, groping for the impulse 
of a new aesthetic progress, and calling for 
the legitimate expression of an enlivened 
patriotic spirit — that the nation should rec- 
ognize and encourage that element of Amer- 
ican genius which utters itself through the 
art of poetry? 

Have we become so absorbed in material 
thrift; so much a people of action; so im- 
patient of thought that is not swift and com- 
mon-place, that precludes meditation, as to 
render futile a plea for the most enduring 
of all forms of expression? May we hope, 
on the verge of a great national crisis, while 
the emotions of the American people are 
gaining new accents and greater depth from 

31 



A NATIONAL ANTHOLOGY 

day to day; when the forces of their destiny 
are fusing the national life into master 
movements and directing them to forfend 
shock from without, that our cultural State 
and National organizations dealing with 
the arts, sciences and letters, shall adopt 
practical means for the recognition, encour- 
agement, critical appraisal and publication 
of the country's poetic product from year to 
year? A permanent official National An- 
thology of American Poetry would be an 
inspirational force in American letters. 

We have museums in which the pictorial 
arts are displayed and preserved. We have 
institutions of science; a National Academy 
of Art; many art societies in every State; 
schools of design, of technology, of nearly 
every branch of the arts and sciences — ex- 
cept poetry, that waif of the public esteem 
which no State or Federal government or 
private munificence has come forward to 
adopt and systematically nourish in a ra- 
tional and practical manner. May we not 
expect that the American Academy of Arts 
and Letters will extend its functions in this 

32 



A NATIONAL ANTHOLOGY 

direction at a time never more oppor- 
tune? 

Libraries as dead as Arabic have been 
profusely piled high in many parts of the 
country for men and women too much en- 
slaved in their shops and homes to visit them 
for study or recreation. Millions upon mil- 
lions of money have been expended for these 
and other philanthropies. But who has 
beckoned poetry into a congenial fireside, 
into an environment where creative research 
would thrive, a Hall of Fame to which 
every American poet might aspire ; to which 
the State Sections could each year send their 
approved poetic product for the National 
Anthology of American Poetry? 

We are the Big International Boy, heavy- 
and-busily-handed ; noisily-footed, gener- 
ous, impulsive, superficial and rude. In 
our radiant sense of well-being, we have not 
regarded many of the legitimate aesthetic 
phases of a national development. We still 
have much culture — to gain. We lack re- 
pose. We have no leisure class to exemplify 
its beauty and public value. Each of us 

33 



A NATIONAL ANTHOLOGY 

is hurrying to get — where? To life's bar- 
ren, disappointed, unmemoried end. And 
yet we must have generated something akin 
to a genuine national spirit. Perhaps the 
impending crisis will crystallize and direct 
it. A great Belgian — the finest ideal of 
parenthood in Europe — once said to me as 
I sat worshipping the philosophic grandeur 
of his character: "Americans are driven 
by steam and electricity; by ambition for 
gold and power; by extravagant creature 
comforts and display; by physical pleasures 
still more or less gross. All virile young 
nations, young men and women, are simi- 
larly actuated. But some day you will learn 
to respect thought without the accompani- 
ment of noisy action; meditation without 
heralds; a philosophy and a religion of the 
heart as well as of the mind. That will be 
the awakening of your nation's soul. Until 
then you will be a big, boisterous boy, too 
big, too vital, too restless for man's quiet lit- 
tle temples in the hills." 

The idea of a National Anthology of 
American Poetry wherein the best Ameri- 

34 



A NATIONAL ANTHOLOGY 

can poems produced during the preceding 
year shall: appear and be appraised under 
competent institutional or government aus- 
pices, can be realized without practical dif- 
ficulty. 

Each State, or an eligible organization 
therein, should appoint a suitable body — 
council, commission, jury, chapter, board or 
section — to be the authorized clearing house 
for that State of the manuscripts submitted, 
or, if published, admitted as qualified, dur- 
ing the year. Each State's representation 
in the National Anthology shall be based 
upon its relative population. The total 
number of poems to be accepted for and 
published in the anthology annually shall 
be one hundred for all the States, with four 
additional poems taken respectively from 
the Eastern, Western, Northern and South- 
ern sections of the country. Poems for the 
anthology may be limited to 1,000 words, 
with power in the national body to modify 
the rule in exceptional cases. 

A central or national body, either Federal 
in origin and character, or created from the 

35 



A NATIONAL ANTHOLOGY 

rank of an eminent literary, art or scientific 
society, — such, for instance, as the American 
Academy of Arts and Letters or the Aca- 
demie Franchise, — shall receive and judge 
of the relative merits of the 104 poems en- 
tered for place in the anthology by the States 
and four sectional divisions of the country. 
To the best poem so entered the national 
body shall award the highest honor for the 
year, an award which shall be evidenced by 
the first place in the anthology. Its certifi- 
cate of the honor conferred shall be issued to 
the author of the work so appraised. To the 
second and third poems of relative merit, 
honors shall be awarded in like degree and 
officially evidenced by certificates. A 
special honor shall be bestowed upon the 
best poem entered from any sectional di- 
vision. Thus four honors are provided in 
addition to the distinction of a place in the 
anthology. Space forbids discussion of 
greater detail. Enough has been indicated 
to outline the plan of the substructure of 
the national and State bodies, their operation 
and purpose. 

36 



A NATIONAL ANTHOLOGY 

As endowments are created by private, 
institutional or governmental provision, 
they can be applied as the national body, in 
association with the State bodies, may de- 
termine. 

The sale of such an authoritative national 
anthology, in which the chosen poems and 
their authors are competently discussed, 
will more than sustain itself and defray the 
expenses of the national body until endow- 
ments or other means become available. It 
would be a sad commentary upon our great 
nation if the cultural work herein advocated 
should lack financial support and the patri- 
otic service of American scholars. 

There is, moreover, an immediate neces- 
sity for lifting anthologies of current Amer- 
ican poetry above the commercial plane 
upon which they seem likely to be promoted 
by individuals whose taste in poetry, whose 
perception of its tendencies and appraisal 
of its merits, is not representative of the 
country nor of its competent critical judg- 
ment. We may even go further and con- 
demn that hardihood which arrogates to 
37 



A NATIONAL ANTHOLOGY 

itself the right to compile and publish the 
product of a favored brood of wayward 
poeticules, whose unmetrical aberrations 
mark the febrile epidemics of the time 
rather than any legitimate progress in the 
poetry of the period, and stamp it as the 
best American poetry of the year. That 
recent publications of this character, glutted 
with the cubistic caterwauling of weird 
young men and asbestos femininity, should 
flagrantly reveal, in the intemperate praise 
of their compilers, the press agents of a 
group of crippled versifiers without gleam 
or expressional facility, is but one element 
in a situation which urges the establishment 
of an authoritative national anthology. In 
its larger aspect, biased publications of this 
character are bound to injure the position 
to which twentieth century American poetry 
is entitled, not so much because of, as in spite 
of, the recent advent of many members of 
the free verse guild and their grotesqueries. 
Much beauty, but more madness, has been 
lately put forth under the Imagist banner. 
Like the modern dance which began with 
38 



A NATIONAL ANTHOLOGY 

delirium, modern poetry of genuine worth 
must purge itself of the harpies who are cor- 
rupting it. 

Briefly then, if American poets, of what- 
ever school or style of expression, are to be 
annually exhibited in an anthology, let the 
latter be truly representative of the best of 
current American poetry, and let the judg- 
ment of its merit issue from a source and in 
a manner which will insure its integrity. 
The creation of a National Anthology of 
American Poetry achieves this purpose. 



39 



THE ANNIVERSARY POEMS 



CELEBRATION ODE 



I 



GREAT City of our love and pride, 
Whose centuried fame is nation-wide, 
And wider than the alien seas, 
To her we cry "All hail!" and bring 
Devotion's gifts the while we swing 
Censers of burning loyalties. 

She answers in the regnant mood 
Of Love's triumphant motherhood, 

As round her surge the chants and cheers 
Of joyous hosts that celebrate 
Her times of eld, her new estate, 

Her quarter of a thousand years. 

II 

The sun in heaven did shine 

And all the earth sang "glory." 

'Twas Beauty's immemorial sign, 
And Nature's annual story. 

The woodland birds were all awing; 

The hills and vales were rich with bloom; 
43 



CELEBRATION ODE 

'Twas Mayday, heyday of the Spring, 

And Life's fresh gladness and perfume. 

The fairest flower that decks the earth, 

In any clime or season, 
Is that of a great ideal whose worth 
Time proves at the hest of Reason. 
'Twas such they brought, in those days of yore, 
And planted deep on our Jersey shore, — 
A strange new flower whose growth became 
Love's healing for the civic frame. 

It spread and every dawn was brighter 

And every creature obeyed its thrall; 
We count the others lesser, slighter — 

The Rose of Freedom is worth them all. 
The bluebirds know it, 
The grasses show it, 

The south winds waft it through mart and 
street ; 
All else may perish, 
'T is ours to cherish 

This Jersey blossom from Robert Treat. 

Ill 

Hail Robert Treat the Puritan, 
And the brave thirty of his clan! 

And that far fair Elizabeth, 
44 



CELEBRATION ODE 

Whose feet were first to tread our soil, 

A Puritan maid, whose betrothal breath* 
Fragrant with legendary grace that knows not 
death, 

Works witchery naught may e'er despoil! 

Superior souls were they, 

Who, in yon earlier time 
Of Oraton's rude Indian sway, 

Began this commonwealth sublime. 
They laid foundations deep and strong. 
The while they built they sang that battle song 
The Ironsides chanted at Naseby and Marston Moor, 
And all the hosts of freedom shout it forevermore. 

The eyes of later sons behold 

Their fathers' faith and dreams of old, 

Their Puritanism clear and brave, 

Love's sterner instrument to save. 

Truth's temple built with frame august, 

To keep our great committals from the dust. 

IV 

List to the stir of the minute men! 
Hark to the roll of drums 

And the tramping of armed feet! 
Lo, the great commander comes — 

Washington, leading a great retreat! 
Welcome them patriots, now as then! 

45 



CELEBRATION ODE 

What soul was his to perceive the stair 

From sky down sheer to the Delaware, 

And trailing pageantry of light! 

What seer of the nearing Christmas night 

To hear God's bells through the wintry gloom 

Toll out the foeman's doom! 

O seven-year fury of war, 

For sake of a golden dream! 
No whit of Old Glory, or Stripe or Star, 
Shall ever bear stain or mar, 

While men remember redemption's stream, 
And cherish the all-consuming blaze 

Of Freedom's holy battle ire — 
Those Revolutionary days 

When Jersey's blood was fire. 



O Peace, thou gentle one! 
No sound of belching gun 
Displays thy heavenly part; 
For Beauty's architect thou art. 
Thou buildest domes of grace 

That catch and echo back 

The spirit's joyous singing. 
Thy high and sacred place 

Is where no tempest's wrack 

Its bolts of hate are flinging. 
46 



CELEBRATION ODE 

The elements of air and earth! 

What willing slaves they fast became 
To those new masters! Solid worth 

Rose from the dust to shining frame. 
Th' expulsive smithy fire, 

The mill-wheel's creaking sounds, 
Stage-coach, the "Old First" spire, 

"The Hunters and the Hounds," 
The workshop, mart and school, 

And "Cockloft Hall," 
And Combs and Boyden snapping custom's rule 

Across the knees of genuis! — History's thrall 
Enwraps and brings the glow of worthy pride 
To us to whom our fathers' gifts were undenied. 

VI 

War clouds were wildly gathering. 

One rode through the City's streets, 
Under Fate's horoscopes. 

Men bowed in awe as he passed — 
Lincoln, the hope of a Nation's hopes. 
Riding to meet the approaching 
blast. 
O Newark, what memories spring 

Out of thy deep heart-beats! 

The black storm rolled, surcharged with thunder, 
While levin of hate tore the sky asunder; 

47 



CELEBRATION ODE 

The earth yawned wide and incarnadine; 

Deep hells flared forth where heavens had been; 

And Jersey's soul was a sacred cup 

Filled unto the brim with patriot blood, 
And offered, thank God, sublimely up 

For Freedom and Country. And thus she 
stood, 
And thus men marched, her heroes marched — 
The ebon sky with light unarched — 
And thus the regiments marched, and marched away, 
The regiments marched day after day, 
While tears were hot upon ashen faces, 
And anguish was mistress of love's embraces, 
O God! but it was terrible, terrible, — 
'Twas part of a Nation's taste of hell, 
To be inspirer to oppressed nations, 
Emancipator of future generations. 
O City of heroes ! Thou didst thy duty well. 

Beautiful days since then have been — 

Days of our golden heritage. 

Right is the warrior's master wage; 
Peace is the guerdon that freemen win. 

VII 

What is this with its mighty thunderings 

Shaking a city's fundaments? 
This is the voice composite of toil that springs 

Out of ten thousand fiery vents. 
48 



CELEBRATION ODE 

This is the roar of a city's industrial life, 

Throb of her engines, whirr of her wheels, 
Furnace and dynamo, traffic and artistry rife, 

Strenuous giant that rages and reels 
Backward and forward with passion cyclonic strained, 

Lifting gigantic arms and hands 
Glutted with products, by sweat and by sinew gained, 

Offered to native and alien lands. 

Wise men who follow Love's starry frame, 
Here in this modern age, 

See where it hovers now 
Sheer over smokestack and belching of flame, 
Greet Right's increasing wage, 
Unto his triumphs bow. 

VIII 

Queen City of Industry! 

And whence doth wisdom come? 
Never a mortal son, 
Only the Throned One 
Is great enough for thee 

And all thy radiant future's sum. 
Thy sires immortal on heights above 

Chant Vision's increasing strain, — 

'T is God alone has the right to reign, 
Since He is the Lord of Love. 



49 



CELEBRATION ODE 

The discords of drudgery turn to melodious measures 

That fill the machinery of toil; 
Faith's song of emancipation, time's chiefest of treasures, 

Ascends out of life's turmoil. 
The heart of the quickening world rejoices; 

Democracy's prophets command, "Make way!" 
While Wealth and Labor, with federate voices, 

Proclaim the Earth's New Day, 
And all the hosts of service spring 

Up the steep slopes of righteousness, 

To answer Justice with loud "Yes," 
To answer Love as 'twere their King. 



IX 

Out of the marshes she proudly rises, 
Greeting her Golden Age; 

Civic symbol of Art's emprises, 
Liberty's heritage, 

Triumph of Industry, Glory of Miracle, 

Facing the Future's alluring spell. 

Set all the whistles blowing! 
Set all the flags a-flying! 

Cheer her predestined majesty! 
Chant her apocalypse ! 



5o 



CELEBRATION ODE 

Up to her feet the sea is flowing ; 

Thousands of eager ships are lying 

Waiting her on the invaded sea. 

Hers are the sea and the ships. 
Blow, whistles blow ! Wave flags unfurled ! 
Newark belongs to the world. 

Lyman Whitney Allen. 



5i 



THE POETRY OF THE NEWARK 
PAGEANT AND MASQUE 

The Drummer 

[Appears in the belfry of the south pylon, beating 
his drumJ\ 

Oyez, Oyez, folk of this town, Oyez ! 
Behold, I beat for you the years away, 
Drum out the rhythmic seasons, make the Spring 
Dance and the Summer sing, the Autumn blaze, 
The Winter whiten drift on drift, and thaw 
Again into the flowery drifts of May. 
Three score and seven years I beat, and these 
The founders and the fathers of the town, 
The stern and solemn pioneers, descend 
To honored rest, and them I wake no more. 
But through these years a fire hath smouldered deep 
Amid the toils and prayers — a fire of wrong: 
And now . . . 

With violent breath to cry injustices 
It flames aloft. And Learning, sedulous 
Of quiet days, shrinks from the storm, but leaves 
In the high heart of youth the battle cry, 
And freedom's trumpets with the bells of faith 

52 



POETRY OF THE PAGEANT 

Chiming together. "Times that try men's souls" 

Are these, and brands upon the gale of war 

Blow round our spires, and thunders of close battles 

Nearer and nearer strike upon our ears. 

Awake, ye drums ! Listen, all ye who dream, 

For here I rouse from the dark sleep of time 

The vision of that mighty discontent 

As here it burned, that lashed the land to flame. 

\The roll of the drums sounds again, diminishes, 
and the Drummer disappears.] 

The Bellman 

[Appears in the belfry of the north pylon, ringing 
his bell] 

The smokes of battle lift, and a new day, 
A day of freedom dearly bought, dawns here. 
And a new nation rising from a dream 
Shakes off her sleep and looks with hopeful eyes 
Upon the morn. Ring clear, O Newark bells, 
To greet again the honored guest, the friend 
Of the Republic, Lafayette. And ring 
For that strong man of cunning hand and brain, 
Seth Boyden, who with high humility 
Gave to our city and the world his toil, 
And asking naught, made richer all our days ; 
For in his name we roll the many names 
Of those who by invention and design 

53 



POETRY OF THE PAGEANT 

Have given garlands to the city's brow, 

And golden words, and fame throughout the land. 

Ring for the years that circle silently 

Till here again our vision groweth bright 

Upon the glow and mirth and festival, 

And on the day when Newark doffed the cloak, 

The ancient village cloak, and stood new-girt 

In a grave City's robes; and yet again 

Upon the loyal townsmen when the word 

Of Lincoln's coming stirred along the streets, 

And men went forth to meet the gathering storm. 

[The bell is struck again, and the Bellman 
vanishes .] 



The Masque of Newark 

[The stage is wholly enveloped in mist, and through 
this, as the music of the masque begins, fireflies are 
seen weaving a curious dance with their lights in the 
darkness. With the chorus of the Mist Spirits, the 
stage is gradually lighted, disclosing the dance of the 
Mists.] 

Chorus 

Mists of the night and morning, 
Drifting and billowing low, 
Marsh lights aglow and the watery moon, 
And the rose on the crests in the dawning. 

54 



POETRY OF THE PAGEANT 

Green of the spring in the meadows 
Lifting along by the lea. 
Grasses that veil the rim of the dune 
Where the sky comes down to the sea. 

Flowers of the marsh on the sea wind, 
Fragrantly blown to the east, 
Sweet with the smokes of the springtide 
When the snows and the storms have ceased. 

Over the waters the singing, 
The lights and the magical rose — 
Mists of the night and the morning 
And the flowers in the veil of the snows. 

[Enter the Puritan Spirit.] 

The Watcher 

Behold, O Spirit, she who cometh forth — 
The soul of thy city. 

[As the Chorus sings, Newark, figured as a 
majestic woman in garb of violet and gold, borne aloft 
in a great throne, enters from the gateway. She is 
attended by her Herald, Law, Church, and the Civic 
Virtues in stately attire.] 

Chorus 

Behold, the gates siving wide! 
Behold, the banners in air! 

55 



POETRY OF THE PAGEANT 

She comes, aloft on the tide 
She comes as a queen would fare; 
Forth to the call of the voice, 
Forth to the night and the stars, 
A crown on her red gold hair: 
A city to rise and rejoice, 
A queen — and her broidered state 
Rich with high deeds and old wars, 
A city, whose trumpets elate 
Proclaim in jubilant blast, 
Proclaim to the hills and the sea 
The grace of the years that are past, 
The glory of years to be. 

The Puritan Spirit 

And Life will break and change eternal things 

If the soul be not steadfast. 

Hark, City, to my word. I set thee here. 

I chose this land ; I toiled through exiled days 

And nights of tyranny for thee. And lo, 

I charge thee, where I strike this rock to flame, 

Be thou its guardian. 

[He strikes the altar with his staff and fire appears.] 

Newark, remember, thou art dedicate 
To the high trust of an enduring faith 
To rule by them in whom my spirit dwells, 
To be a refuge from idolatries. 

56 



POETRY OF THE PAGEANT 

Let not thy gates stand open to the world 
And all the .world's unholiness. Let those 
Who kneel not, pray not as I pray, depart. 
Let thy looms weave not vanities, thy forges 
Spend not their heat on unregenerate steel. 
Be of one faith, one heart — one love and law, 
And keep upon this altar stone my fire 
And in thy heart my counsels. For I pass 
Within thy gates as one who seeks his home. 
Newark, remember! 

The Watcher 

Too stern a law will break itself. The years 
Are filled with life that changes. Look on them. 
Take counsel with their voices, and distil 
Out of their fruitage a more tolerant fire, 
That flutters in the wind of time, but dies not. 

[As he speaks a ghostly procession appears before 
Newark and the Puritan Spirit — a procession of the 
Years of Newark. Some of them are figures of grace 
and dignity, from childhood to old age; and many are 
the great souls who in the past have enriched the City's 
life, the Founders, the Patriots, the Nourishers of 
growth and wonder. As the years pass, their march 
reflecting its stately measure in the placid waters, the 
Chorus is heard.] 



57 



POETRY OF THE PAGEANT 

Chorus 

The tread of the years is a solemn tread, 

Slowly they pass, 
And their faces the waters mirror back 

As a maid's in a glass. 

A child of the years is a city's life, 

Changing and growing, 
And the faces of all her dreamers live, 

Dreaming and glowing; 

The dreamers and masters of dreams go by 

In glory and pity; 
These are thine — ghosts of thy glory — 

Look up, O City. 

For the fire will rise and the spring will bloom 

When the heart is wise, 
And the years as they pass are filled with dreams 

As with stars the skies. 

[The Processional passes from sight. .] 

The Puritan Spirit 

I yield me, Watcher, to the living world, 
And to the mighty memories by these 
Brought home. I see my city richer for 
Their high traditions and immortal names. 
I call — and now at last I trust. I lift 
Mine eyes to welcome Liberty. 

58 



POETRY OF THE PAGEANT 

[Music; Liberty enters, followed by a train of the 
spirits of primeval beauty who at the opening of the 
Masque were banished by the Puritan. Liberty 
approaches Newark; the groups of the Nations and 
Industries kneel; she touches Newark's hands and 
lips as though with some mysterious incantation. 
Newark rises, the grayness of her desolation falling 
from her as a cloak. She stands forward between 
Liberty and the Puritan Spirit.] 

Newark . 

Rejoice, O ye who call my walls your home. 

Our fathers stablished toil and love and faith; 

The years have brought us light and Liberty; 

The nations sent us from their mightiest souls 

Their dreams and triumphs. Now the tide is flood. 

Now stand I at the peak of this my life, 

Look back with pride, look forward with high heart, 

And lift my voice with yours, articulate. 

Rejoice! Proclaim to-night my golden hour: 

Lift to the stars your songs of festival. 

Chorus 

All hail ! Fair City in fame, 
All hail! To Newark's mighty name. 
The golden shafts of morning strike the spires 
Above the mists with reverential fires ; 
Let all the sails of all the world 

59 



POETRY OF THE PAGEANT 

In thy deep harbor be unfurled. 
All hail ! Fair city high in fame. 

To thee, O City dedicate 
To God and Truth, we come in state! 
Hail, proud spirit of Newark — hail 
City of faith and liberty! 

Look now upon thine onward years and raise 
Thy heart and voice in prayer and praise, 
O Newark, lift thy crowned head in pride 
Remembering those who served thee ere they died! 

[The nations pass before Newark in processional.'] 

Accept thine homage, Newark, free, 

From all the nations, 

From all the nations, 

Homage from nations leal to thee. 

All hail ! Fair City high in fame, 

All hail! To Newark's mighty name. 

The golden shafts of morning strike thy spires 

Above the mists with reverential fires ; 

Let all the sails of all the world 

In thy deep harbor be unfurled. 

All hail! Fair city high in fame. 

[The lights sink as the mists again rise, and the 
Pageant disappears.] 

60 



THE PRIZE POEMS 



First Prize Poem 

THE SMITHY OF GOD 

Author — Clement Wood, New York City 
Nom de plume — Vulcan Smith 
Entry 136; Percentage 675 

A CHANT 



[A bold j masculine chant. ] 

I am Newark, forger of men, 
Forger of men, forger of men — 
Here at a smithy God wrought, and flung 
Earthward, down to this rolling shore, 
God's mighty hammer I have swung, 
With crushing blows that thunder and roar, 
And delicate taps, whose echoes have rung 
Softly to heaven and back again; 
Here I labor, forging men. 
Out of my smithy's smouldering hole, 
As I forge a body and mould a soul, 
The jangling clangors ripplewise roll. 
63 



THE SMITHY OF GOD 

[The voice suggests the noises of the city.] 

Clang, as a hundred thousand feet 
Tap-tap-tap down the morning street, 
And into the mills and factories pour, 
Like a narrowed river's breathing roar. 

Clang, as two thousand whistles scream 
Their seven-in-the-morning's burst of steam, 
Brass- throated Sirens, calling folk 
To the perilous breakers of din and smoke. 
Clang, as ten thousand vast machines 
Pound and pound, in their pulsed routines, 
Throbbing and stunning, with deafening beat, 
The. tiny humans lost at their feet. 

Clang, and the whistle and whirr of trains, 
Rattle of ships unleased of their chains, 
Fire-gongs, horse-trucks' jolts and jars, 
Traffic-calls, milk-carts, droning cars . . . 

[A softer strain.] 

Clang, and a softer shiver of noise 
As school-bells summon the girls and boys; 
And a mellower tone, as the churches ring 
A people's reverent worshipping. 

[Still more softly and drowsily, the last line whis- 
pered.] 

64 



THE SMITHY OF GOD 

Clang, and clang, and clang, and clang, 

Till a hundred thousand tired feet 

Drag-drag-drag down the evening stre :t, 

And gleaming the myriad street-lights hang; 

The far night-noises dwindle and hush, 

The city quiets its homing rush ; 

The stars glow forth with a silent sweep, 

As hammer and hammered drowse asleep . . . 

Softly I sing to heaven again, 

I am Newark, forger of men, 

Forger of men, forger of men. 

II 

[dntichorus, with restrained bitterness, and notes of 
wailing and sorrow.^ 

You are Newark, forger of men, 
Forger of men, forger of men . . . 
You take God's children, and forge a race 
Unhuman, exhibiting hardly a trace 
Of Him and His loveliness in their face. 
Counterfeiting his gold with brass, 
Blanching the roses, scorching the grass, 
Filling with hatred and greed the whole, 
Shrivelling the body, withering the soul. 

What have you done with the lift of youth, 
As they bend in the mill, and bend in the mill? 
Where have you hidden beauty and truth, 
65 



THE SMITHY OF GOD 

As they bend in the mill ? 

Where is the spirit seeking the sky, 

As they stumble and fall, stumble and fall ? 

What is life, if the spirit die, 

As they stumble and fall? 

[With bitter resignation.] 

Clang, and the strokes of your hammer grind 

Body and spirit, courage and mind ; 

Smith of the devil, well may you be 

Proud of your ghastly forgery ; 

Dare you to speak to heaven again, 

Newark, Newark, forger of men, 

Forger of men, forger of men? 

Ill 

[Beginning quietly, gathering certainty.] 

I am Newark, forger of men, 
Forger of men, forger of men. 
Well I know that the metal must glow 
With a scorching, searing heat; 
Well I know that blood must flow, 
And floods of sweat, and rivers of woe ; 
That underneath the beat 

Of the hammer, the metal will writhe and toss; 
That there will be much and much of loss 
That has to be sacrificed, 
66 



THE SMITHY OF GOD 

Before I can forge body and soul 

That can stand erect and perfect and whole 

In the sight of Christ. 

[Sadly and somberly.] 

My hammer is numb to sorrows and aches, 
My hammer is blind to the ruin it makes, 
My hammer is deaf to shriek and cry 
That ring till they startle water and sky. 

And sometimes with me the vision dims 
At the sight of bent backs and writhing limbs; 
And sometimes I blindly err, and mistake 
The perfect glory I must make. 

[Rising to a song of exultant triumph^ 

But still I labor and bend and toil, 
Shaping anew the stuff I spoil; 
And out of the smothering din and grime 
I forge a city for all time : 
A city beautiful and clean, 
With wide sweet avenues of green, 
With gracious homes and houses of trade, 
Where souls as well as things are made. 
I forge a people fit to dwell 
Unscathed in the hottest heart of hell, 
And fit to shine, erect and straight, 
When we shall see His kingdom come 
67 



THE SMITHY OF GOD 

On earth, over all of Christendom, — 
And I stand up, shining and great, 
Lord of an unforeseen estate. 
Then I will cry, and clearly then, 
I am Newark, forger of men. 



68 



Second Prize Poem 

THE CITY OF HERITAGE 

Author — Anna Blake Mezquida, San Francisco, Cal. 
Nome de plume — Anne Grinfill 
Entry 278; Percentage 575 

DOWN where the swift Passaic 
Flows on to the placid bay, 
Where the marshes stretch to the restless sea, 
And the green hills cling in the mountain's lee, 
There the sad-eyed Lenni-Lenape 
Unchallenged held their sway. 

Gentlest of all their neighbors, 

Proud race of the Delaware, 
They lived in the land where their fathers dwelt, 
They killed the game and they cured the pelt, 
And marked the blue in the wampum belt — 

The purple and blue so rare. 

When day tripped over the meadows 

Fresh as a maiden trim, 
They skirted the trails where the black swamps lie, 

69 



THE CITY OF HERITAGE 

They notched the cedars to guide them by, 
And wandered free as the birds that fly 
Beyond the river's rim. 

But few were the moons that silvered 

The mountain's hoary side, 
When over the banks where the waters foam, 
Over the fields where they loved to roam, 
Into the heart of their forest home 

They watched the pale-face stride. 

Unconquered, and loath to conquer, 

They hid the arrow and bow; 
The mat was spread for the honored guest; 
They hung bright beads on the stranger's breast, 
And mutely, singing, they bade him rest 

Before the camp-fire's glow. 

The suns of a hundred noondays 

Blazed down on river and hill, 
And the pale-face walked in the red-man's land ; 
A pious, fearless and strong-souled band, 
For home and for country they took their stand, 

And served God with a will. 

Where the waters gleamed in splendor, 
And the meadows glistened green, 
They founded a town with an English name; 
Their sternness shielded it like a flame, 

70 



THE CITY OF HERITAGE 

And woe to the creature of sloth or shame 
Who dared let himself be seen! 

They founded the house of learning; 

They built them the place of trade; 
They guarded their laws by the force of might — 
The laws that they held as a free man's right; 
And first to pray, they were first to fight 

When foemen stood arrayed. 

And staunch were their children's children, 

Brave men of a stalwart breed, 
Who fought for the land where their fathers fought, 
And kept the faith that was dearly bought, 
That a brother-man, in the shackles caught, 

Forever might be freed. 

And into the growing city 

Poured German and Celt and Scot, 
All seeking the land of the sore-oppressed — 
The land that all free-born souls had blest, 
And put of their manhood's brawny best 

Into the melting pot. 

The moccasined feet have padded 

Into the silence vast, 
And the smoke-stacks belch where the camp-fires glowed, 
Yet the white man reaps what the red man sowed, 
For the friendliness to the stranger showed 

Shall live while the town shall last. 
71 



THE CITY OF HERITAGE 

Unfearing, true and sturdy, 

The Puritan left his mark; 
Though he sleeps beneath the grassy sod, 
Though a million feet o'er his bones have trod, 
Yet he leaves his faith and his love of God 

To light men through the dark. 

The soldier's battles are over; 

His deeds but a written page! 
Now the living pass by his low green tent, 
But the patriot fires of a young life spent, 
And a country whole from a country rent 

He leaves to a future age. 

The toiler that strove and builded, 

And into the furnace hurled 
Not coals alone, but his hopes and dreams, 
Has lighted a beacon that ever gleams, — 
While ships that sail on a hundred streams 

Shall bear his gifts to the world. 

Then rise to your heritage, Newark! 

It cannot be swept away 
Like chaff by the sullen north winds blown, 
Or barren seed that is lightly sown, 
For out of the past has the present grown — 

The city men love to-day! 



72 



Third Prize Poem 

NEWARK— 1916 

Author — Albert E. Trombly, Philadelphia, Pa. 
Nom de plume — Edmond St. Hilaire 
Entry 262; Percentage 540 



THEY tell us that your streets are lined with trees 
And daily swept, that numbered on your rolls 
You vaunt of nigh a half a million souls — 
Athens and Rome have envied things like these! 
But tell me — are they men the stranger sees 
In your great hive, men bent on manly goals? 
And can he find recorded on your scrolls 
That hearts as well as streets are cleansed of lees ? 

And are there in those hearts recesses shaded 
From the hot turmoil of the dusty day, 
Where, shaking off the bonds that chafe and shackle, 
The soul may enter in, dejected, jaded, 
Forget the burden of its old dismay, 
And dream awhile in love's own tabernacle? 

73 



NEWARK— 1916 

II 

'Tis not in numbers that a city's great: 
The population of the Attic town 
Is quite forgotten now; but what came down 
Is Sophocles portraying love and hate; 
The life of Socrates and his sad fate ; 
Praxiteles bidding marble smile or frown; 
Demosthenes denouncing Philip's crown ; 
And Plato's vision of the perfect state. 

'Tis not for numbers that a town should cope: 
For Babylon, not Athens, follows then, 
And Babylon we know but by its fall; 
No, not in numbers let us place our hope, 
But in the large heart of the citizen 
Who sacrifices self to succor all. 

Ill 

Who praises Athens, praises Pericles. 

'Twas he who dreamed the Parthenon, and drew 

Artist and artisan to shape for you 

The columns of the temple and the frieze. 

And merchants brought their wares from over-seas ; 

And teachers gathered there, and statesmen too; 

And Phidias came, beneath whose chisel grew 

Athena, perfect in her haughty ease. 



74 



NEWARK— 1 9 1 6 

So must you summon to your citadel, 
Men from trie fields and men by visions led, 
That each may be the other's counterpart. 
For never can we mortals fashion well 
Unless some give us where to lay the head, 
While others dream a refuge for the heart. 



75 



NEWARK 

the voice of the city 

Sayers Coe 

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! 
Hark to the music that the hammers beat! 
List to the tramp of the marching feet! 
See, where the forges redly glow! 
This is the song that my children know — 
Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! 

Hear me, Cities of Men: 

I speak from the fullness of years and deeds; 

I speak with the courage of dreams come true; 

I thrill with the past my fathers knew; 

I throb with life as the present speeds; 

I pant for the future I dream of anew. 

Hear me, Cities of Men ! 

First came the Founder who fathered the dream; 
Then came the settler who carried it out — 
Merchants to barter, and traders to scheme; 
Churchmen to worship, severe and devout; 
Farmers to till, and lawyers to plead; 

76 



NEWARK 

Hunters to kill, and doctors to cure; 

Poets to write, and critics to read ; 

Men to be wealthy, and men to be poor. 

These made the city; I prospered, until 

I outgrew the lowland and climbed up the hill. 

Then rose the sound of the drum, 
Calling my sons to the sword, 
Rollings its "Come! Come! Come!" 
Striking the master-chord: 
"Come! for your country calls! 
Come from the field and town! 
Come from the huts and halls! 
Off with the tyrant Crown ! 
Strike for your homes and rights! 
Smite — for Jehovah smites!" 
Thus came the sound of the drum, 
Rolling its "Come! Come! Come!" 

Gladly I suffered and freely gave, 

Joyful I bled. 

Out from my gates marched the young and the brave; 

Swiftly they sped 

To die that the banner of Freedom might wave, 

To rest unsung in a lonely grave. 

Honor my dead! 

Republic! Land of Liberty! 
Country of opportunity! 

77 



NEWARK 

I felt the thrill — 
I knew the zest of toil ; 
And from the wild turmoil 
Fashioned my will. 

Success was mine, and on the placid stream 

Of civic growth I floated in a dream 

Of world-wide commerce. All the while I grew, 

Yet proudly wondered as the dream came true. 

Then with a crash came the days of despair; 
Broken the Union, and flaming with war. 
Sadly I rose to shoulder my share — 
Bravely my children bore themselves there. 
Peace stilled the cannons' roar. 

Now were the welcome days of peace, 
When slowly I prospered with steady increase 
Of lands and wealth and pride and fame, 
Far over the seas my children came — 
Briton and German, Frenchman and Pole, 
From the kingdom, republic, and little enclave; 
Seeking for freedom of body and soul, 
Russian, Italian, Irish, and Slav. 
All, all I welcomed with boisterous delight; 
They were my sinews, and they are my might. 
I took them strangers, and made them mine own, 
Flesh of my flesh, and bone of my bone. 
They gave me their labor. I to repay 

78 



NEWARK 

Give them myself in my glory today. 

With them is my future, for they are my past; 

I am their own to exalt or to blast. 

Ever I peer ahead; 
Ever I dream again — 

Have I been cleansed by pain? 
What have I merited? 
Ever the answers firmly come; 
Ever I hear my children's song, 
Rising above the marching throng, 
Over the engines' busy hum. 

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! 
Hark to the music that the hammers beat! 
List to the tramp of the marching feet! 
See, where the forges redly glow! 
This is the song that my children know — 
Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! 



79 



PURITAN NEWARK 
Katherine Baker 

PURITAN Newark, 
The Martha of cities, 
Careful and provident 
Sits at her spindles. 

Down the world's pathways 
Hobo and Tsar, 
Shod by her industry, 
Borne in her carriages, 
Jeweled or clothed by her, 
Pass without gratitude. 

Still her shrewd sons, 
Like their stern forebears 
Who came from Connecticut, 
Make their religion 
The gospel of usefulness, 
Still with their hymnals 
Wadding their guns. 

Jews, in her factories, 
Pollacks and Finns and Greeks, 
80 



PURITAN NEWARK 

Sweat out new destinies: 
Wring from strange chemicals 
Lives for their children, 
Wealth for the world. 

Build for their children 
Her schools and her aqueducts, 
Build themselves citizens 
Of no mean city; 
Forge in her foundries 
The soul of America. 

So when swift trains 
Are rolling through Newark, 
Men at the windows see, 
Far down a busy street, 
Flash in perspective 
The Goddess of Liberty. 



81 



TO NEWARK 
Haniel Long 

r I ""HE day a modern city celebrates 

■*■ Her age, and wonders what her life may mean, 
Long dead philosophers could come to her, 
Poets and scientists should throng to her, 
And the most noble thoughts of men and women 
Alive and dead, should quicken in her mind. 
The clouds and stars should speak, nor should the fields 
Be dumb; and the procession of the years 
Should bring her many a richly 'broidered word 
Taken from the loom of time. 

What would they say? 
Newark, the years would bring the self-same words 
They brought of old to Baghdad and Peking 
And many an elder city now forgotten, 
The self-same words they bring to San Francisco, 
London, Berlin ; for they would say to you 
That though the gardens of the distant past 
Are fair in memory, and though the dust 
Of ancient times came to consummate flower 
In many a beautifully bodied girl 
And boy, in many a tender-hearted woman 
And stalwart man, this life of ours to-day 

82 



TO NEWARK 

Is quite as fair, and animated dust 

As preciousv They would say to you that still 

Apples of the Hesperides are bright 

And waiting to be picked, and days are fresh, 

And dogwood still is white in early May. 

And they would say that never any town 

Was more beloved of eternity 

Nor given a more golden chance. Newark, 

You have the only stuff that ever was 

Of glory, for you have the souls of men : 

The dream of love and justice which you weave 

Out of the faces in your thoroughfares, — 

A girl-like sunlight on the tasseled corn ; 

Beside her, eager with his love, a youth 

Whose stride is music and whose laugh is wine, — 

The dream you weave of them, the dream you weave 

Of all your children and their hopes and fears, 

Will be a prophecy of time to come, 

When, in the wisdom of his ageless heart, 

Mankind shall build the City Beautiful. 



83 



NEWARK 
Minnie J. Reynolds 

A hundred years he slept beside 
The meadows with their salty tide ; 
Without, the century rushed and screamed- 
But still he slept, and never dreamed. 

The bees buzzed round him where he lay; 
The honied scent of new-mown hay 
Came wafted down the village street — 
Those hundred placid years to greet. 

The second laggard century crept, 
Slow loitering on, and still he slept; 
But in his sleep he dreamed and stirred — 
And on his lips a muttered word. 

Troubled, he turned; he vaguely sighed; 
His eyes, half opened, saw the wide 
Horizons that, beyond his ken, 
Swept out into the world of men. 

With shriek and shot and clangorous din 
Came his third century leaping in; 
84 



NEWARK 

He sprang to meet it with a roar — 
The giant wakes, to sleep no more. 

By the salt meadows there he stands, 
With knotted muscles, iron hands, 
And fills a thousand rushing keels, 
And turns ten thousand thousand wheels. 

He hurls the rushing trains afar, 
He calls where distant peoples are, 
And bids them work with sweating speed 
His clamorous engines still to feed. 

And islands in far southern seas 
For him denude their tropic trees; 
And in the jungle's endless night 
Toil slaves to feed the giant's might. 

His harvest field is all the earth, 
Raw wealth he gleans, and gives it birth 
In forms of use for all the world; 
His flag of toil is never furled. 

By the salt meadows there he stands, 
A giant, with his iron hands 
Grasping a throttle open wide — 
And round him sweep horizons wide. 



85 



THE BALLAD OF SETH BOYDEN'S GIFT 
Alice Reade Rouse 

High in the Square his statue stands, 

INVENTOR carved beneath: 
But he who crimsoned the lips of Spring 

Might wear a Poet's wreath. 

OLD Newark sat in its bosky streets, 
Tidy and prim and serene ; 
Prankt with posies and orchard sweets 
To the fringe of its marshes green. 

'Twas after the fighting of 1812 

Seth Boyden came to town; 
He'd licked the British, — and they'd licked him, — 

And he wanted to settle down. 

Old Newark called to him potently, 
Though none but himself could hear 

That clashing summons as it clanged 
On his prophetic ear: 

None but himself see that clean blue sky 
With its white little chubby clouds, 
86 



SETH BOYDEN'S GIFT 

Grimed with the reek of his chimneys tall, 
Grim with his black smoke-shrouds. 

"Thou hast lent me talents ten, Lord God," 

To his Maker deep he prayed: 
"An Thou prosper me, I will give them back 

Tenfold increased," he said. 

Long with his cunning hands he wrought, 

Long with his seething brain, 
That God might not require of him 

His usury in vain. 

He watched the hedgerow'd village lanes 
Where tinkling cows browsed home 

Herded by whistling barefoot lads, 
Great thoroughfares become: 

Stone-paven streets where clicked the heels 

In castanetted tune 
Of all new Newark's gentlefolk, 

Shod with his shining shoon. 

Malleable to his iron will, 

He bent earth's iron bars: 
The lightning Franklin had lured down, 

He flashed back to the stars. 

A thousand men he kept at work, 
A thousand ships at toil, 
87 



SETH BOYDEN'S GIFT 

A thousand ways of increase he 
Wrought out upon the soil. 

At length in life's cool afternoon, 
He paced his garden-place: — 

A garden dipt from Newark's youth, 
Gay with its old-time grace. 

Outside his gates he heard the growl 
Of labor chained to the wheel, 

The roar of his captured genii bound, 
The shriek of his tortured steel. 

He thought of old Newark's bosky streets, 

Tidy and prim and serene, 
Prankt with posies and orchard sweets 

To the fringe of its marshes green. 

He said: "I have had my work to do 

Thy lendings to increase, 
Lord God : — to pay Thee back Thy loan 

Before my days should cease. 

"Now, ere my death-hour strike, I would 

I might just pleasure Thee! 
Give Thee and Newark some quaint gift 

All free from merchantry." 

Up from the garden-sward there breathed 
An exquisite bouquet: 



SETH BOYDEN'S GIFT 

Fresh, faint, and fragrant as a wine 
For fairies on Mayday. 

And glancing down, Seth Boyden saw 

The wonder at his feet: 
Wild strawberries like elfin cups 

Brimmed with ecstatic sweet: 

Too frail for aught save dryades 

To taste with leafy lips, 
Yet aromatic as the juice 

That Puck in secret sips. 

Seth Boyden smiled: with careful skill 

He culled the perfect plants. 
Through patient moons he wove his spells 

Till knowledge conquered chance. 

He fed and watered, pruned and plucked, 

Till from his garden-sod, 
There blazed a berry fit to feed 

A hero or a god! 

This was the gift Seth Boyden gave 

To all his world for boon; 
That Heaven might smile and Newark feast 

From April on through June. 

For the great epic of his toil 
Heaped laurels are his meed: 
89 



SETH BOYDEN'S GIFT 

And garlands for the loveliness 
Of that last lyric deed. 

High in the Square his statue stands, 
INVENTOR carved beneath: 

But he who invented strawberries, 
Might wear a Poet's wreath! 



90 



THE SILENT MESSAGE 
James H. Tuckley 

CITY of throbbing wheels and marts, 
Where thrive all nations and all arts, 
What cheer, what cheer brings in this year, 
This white commemorative year? 
Is there a voice to reach men's hearts? 
Old First's brown ancient spire alway 
Points up from the soil 

Where the Founders trod, 
Points up from the moil 

Where the myriads plod, 
From the scenes of toil, 

From the sacred sod, 
And seems to say in a silent way, 
"Remember God, remember God!" 

O driven minds, O frantic feet, 
O surging throngs of shop and street, 
Is ever hush upon your soul, 
Is ever pause, to see life whole, 
Or is this life, this feverish heat? 
Lone spokesman of an older day, 
That spire, like a finger of faith, alway 
91 



THE SILENT MESSAGE 

Points up from the soil 

Where the Founders trod, 
Points up from the moil 

Where the myriads plod, 
From the scenes of toil, 

From the sacred sod, 
And seems to say in a pleading way, 
"Remember God, remember God!" 

O ye who seek with purblind sight 
The frantic day's more frantic night, 
Wliy in your pleasure gleam so plain 
The tense and pallid looks of pain 
Beneath the incandescents white? 
Lone spokesman of an older day, 
Old First's dim looming spire alway 
Points up from the soil 

Where the Founders trod, 
From the scenes of toil, 

From the sacred sod, 
Points up from the moil 

Where the myriads plod, 
And seems to say in a warning way, 
"Remember God, remember God !" 

O little shadowy graveyard old, 
Where lie the ancient true and bold, 
Are these, long pent in dusty cell, 
The very lives men loved so well, 
92 



THE SILENT MESSAGE 

Or is this but their bodies' mould? 
Lone spokesman of an older day, 
That spire, like a finger of faith, alway 
Points up from the soil 

Where the Founders trod, 
Points up from the moil 

Where the myriads plod, 
From the scenes of toil, 

From the sacred sod, 
And seems to say in a hopeful way, 
"Remember God, remember God!" 



93 



THE BUILDERS 
Berton Braley 

NEVER a jungle is penetrated, 
Never an unknown sea is dared, 
Never adventure is consummated, 
Never a faint new trail is fared, 
But that some dreamer has had the vision 

Which leads men on to the ends of earth, 
That laughs at doubting, and scorns derision, 
And falters not at the cynic's mirth. 

So the dreamer dreams, but there follows after 

The mighty epic of steel and stone, 
When caison, scaffold and well and rafter 

Have made a fact where the dream was shown; 
And so with furnace and lathe and hammer, 

With blast that rumbles and shaft that gleams, 
Her factories crowned with a grimy glamour, 

Newark buildeth the dreamers' dreams. 

Where the torrent leaps with a roar of thunder, 
Where the bridge is built or the dam is laid, 

Where the wet walled tunnel burrows under 
Mountain, river and palisade, 
94 



THE BUILDERS 

There is Newark's magic of nail or girder, 
Of spikes and castings and posts and beams, 

The need and wants of the world have spurred her, 
Newark — city that builds our dreams. 

She has fashioned tools for the world's rough duty, 

For the men who dig and the men that hew, 
She has fashioned jewels for wealth and beauty, 

She has shod the prince and the pauper, too; 
So the dreamer dreams, he's the wonder waker, 

With soul that hungers and brain that teems, 
But back of him toils the magic-maker, 

Newark — city that builds his dreams. 



95 



THE HILLFOLK SPEAK 
Simon Barr 

WE are the giftless ones, the empty of hand, 
Bearing no joy to you, miracle City rejoicing, 
We have no flowers for your hair, and no flaming 

brand. 
Flagless the sky on the hill 
And the streets without gleam, 
And the dawn and the night are still, 
Without song for the voicing; 
There is no song in our hearts, having Death for a 

dream. 
We have not reared to you statues, for the still grey 

form of sorrow 
Finds no place in your streets. 
And we cannot greet the sun, seeing but tears, 
And we cannot dance to the morrow, 
For the heavy chains of the years 
Shackle our feet. 

We are the giftless ones, the bearers only of prayers. 

Out of strange dreams we came, 
Dwellers on distant hills through the myriad miles of 
unknowing, 

96 



THE HILLFOLK SPEAK 

Bearing strange visions and yearning after a name — 

Like a Star. J 

Fleeing the jibe and the torment, the labor of years 

overthrowing, 
We came to the outstretched hand and the welcome 

flung afar, 
We who had dwelt where the night comes like a 

steel-mailed fist 
And the day like a spear. 
And the hours are dragging manacles or the lashes of 

whips. 
We heard your pasan of greeting through the deadly 

net of fear 
And we came to the magical towers and the magical 

flag in the mist 
With prayers on our lips. 
We that have worn the crown of thorns, 
Kingless and landless we came to the land 
Where all the kings and worship erect, 
Even as those who, fleeing the ancient scorn, 
Came empty of hand, 
And built you, O wonderful City, miracle decked. 

We are giftless, the bearer only of prayers. 

We, too, have built the city's walls and its towers, 
Where there was marsh and a silence now flares the 

chorus of steel. 
We fashioned the tool and the wheel 

97 



THE HILLFOLK SPEAK 

And breathed into them their powers. 

We that came empty-handed have given of hand and 

soul: 
The thousand stacks we built that strive like hands to 

the clouds; 
For every brick and bar we have paid its bloody toll; 
Ours are the living threads that bring you strength 

and light; 
And force the pulse through your streets 
And the murmurous life of your crowds ; 
Ours is the golden stream and the might; 
Ours is the striving, the glory and the light; 
Ours is the city and ours is the good thereof — 
It is ours — to its beauty we have given more than 

love! 

Yet we are the giftless ones, the bearers only of 
prayers. 

For us are only the ashes, we that have made the 

flame ; 
To us is flung but the dross, the maker of gold. 
We that have given you power are counted as fuel 
And burnt and bought and sold. 
You have wrought of our Hill a shame 
And given us houses like smudges on the earth. 
Our day is not of the sun and the night is cruel 
And Sorrow stalks through our houses, hand in hand 

with. Dearth. 

98 



THE HILLFOLK SPEAK 

Our fleeting lives are a breath, a pain and a breath — 
And ever we have for our neighbor, Death. 

We are the giftless ones, listen and heed our prayers. 

Give us a little glory of all we have made, 

O miracle City. 

Give us a little of sunlight, a little of life ; 

Of all the fruit of the years and the centuries' trade, 

Give us a little bread ; 

O give us strength for the strife. 

Give us a little of pity — 

Before we are dead. 

We are the giftless ones, grant us our prayers. 

Give us, O miracle City, this year of years, 

Strength for your greater glory, 

Power for greater height; 

Give us surcease of tears, 

Joy and joy in the might — 

To build your towers to the sun and to fashion your 

story 
Of right! 



99 



TO A CITY SENDING HIM ADVER- 
TISEMENTS 

Ezra Pound 

BUT will you do all these things? 
You, with your promises, 
You, with your claims to life, 
Will you see fine things perish? 
Will you always take sides with the heavy; 
Will you, having got the songs you ask for, 

Choose only the worst, the coarsest ? 
Will you choose flattering tongues? 

Sforza . . . Baglione! 
Tyrants, were flattered by one renaissance, 

And will your Demos, 
Trying to match the rest, do as the rest, 
The hurrying other cities, 
Careless of all that's quiet, 
Seeing the flare, the glitter only? 

Will you let quiet men 

live and continue among you, 
Making, this one, a fane, 
This one, a building; 
Or this bedevilled, casual, sluggish fellow 
IOO 



TO A CITY 

Do, once in a life, the single perfect poem, 
And let him go unstoned? 

Are you alone? Others make talk 

and chatter about their promises, 
Others have fooled me when I sought the soul. 
And your white slender neighbor, 

a queen of cities, 
A queen ignorant, can you outstrip her; 
Can you be you, say, 
As Pavia's Pavia 
And not Milan swelling and being modern 
despite her enormous treasure? 

If each Italian city is herself, 

Each with a form, light, character, 
To love and hate one, and be loved and hated, 

never a blank, a wall, a nullity ; 
Can you, Newark, be thus, 

setting a fashion 
But little known in our land? 

The rhetoricians 
Will tell you as much. Can you achieve it? 
You ask for immortality, you offer a price for it, 
a price, a prize, and honour? 

You ask a life, a life's skill, 

bent to the shackle, 
bent to implant a soul 
in your tick commerce? 

IOI 



TO A CITY 

Or the God's foot 
struck on your shoulder 

effortless, 
being invoked, properly called, 
invited ? 
I throw down his ten words, 

and we are immortal? 

In all your hundreds of thousands 

who will know this ; 

Who will see the God's foot, 

who catch the glitter, 

The silvery heel of Apollo ; 

who know the oblation 

Accepted, heard in the lasting realm? 

If your professors, mayors, judges . . . ? 

Reader, we think not . . . 
Some more loud-mouthed fellow, 

slamming a bigger drum, 
Some fellow rhyming and roaring, 

Some more obsequious back, 
Will receive their purple, 

be the town's bard, 
Be ten days hailed as immortal, 
But you will die or live 
By the silvery heel of Apollo. 



1 02 



THE SOUL OF THE CITY 

Edward N. Teall 

(Newark: i 666-1 91 6) 

WRITE a poem of Newark? I think you are 
mad! 
What is there poetic in Newark? 
For Pegasus, what has Newark but the pound? 
Suppose Homer sang at the Four Corners! 
Newark might pity his beard and blindness, 
But as for his verses — Poof! 

If a poet walked through Broad Street, 

Newark would laugh at his long hair, 

Newark would jeer and jibe, 

And in the end kill him with disregard more cruel 

than scorn or the flung stone, 
Or spew him out of the corporate urban mouth. 

Write a poem of Newark? 

Write a poem of the stomach ache, 
A poem of a droning beehive! 
Hammer out words to fit the strident cacophonies 
103 



THE SOUL OF THE CITY 

Wrung by some exiled son of Italy 

Out of a box on wheels 

With wheezy bellows in its bowels 

And the meter regulated by a handle on a crank shaft. 

Would not that be the music of an American city? 

Still! Milton wrote of a beehive, 

"As when in Spring the sun with Taurus rides," 

You know those lines of limpid melody. 

(John Milton was nobody's fool — 

When it came to smiting the lyre.) 

Are humans less usable stuff 
Of poetry than apis? 

And others have spun music out of their inward pains, 

Wrung vocal harmonies from physical discords — 

And a stomach ache is not less a part 

Of man's grotesquely constituted being 

Than are those maladies of soul 

Whose treatment made the Tragedist of Avon great! 

And a city of America 

In this conglomerate era 

Is a huge and writhing indigestion. 

There must be poetry in it! 
Celebrate the years of Newark? 
104 



THE SOUL OF THE CITY 

What is a year, that number it, 
Name it as we do the new baby, 
Or Newark's new hotel — 
As Robert Treat had in a name 
Identity distinct? 

A year is so much growth? 

So many new houses, new babies, 

New methods in your mills, 

So many sprouting tombstones in your graveyards, 

So many new voices in your pulpits, 

New faces (sealed with wax of hypocrite polite atten- 
tion) in the pews; 

So many new streets laid open 

(Gashing and scarring the ancient bills and fertile 
fields) — 

So many new names entered on the baptismal record 
(or the station-house blotter), 

So many more minted dollars 

In municipal coffers 

(Or sidetracked into political pockets) — 

So many suburbs ingurgitated? 

But if the Founders could return, 
We would read 
In their city 
A Poem! 

The steel cars, 

The tracks in the streets 

105 



THE SOUL OF THE CITY 

And high powered, soft cushioned limousines, jugger- 
nauts of swift moving pleasure; 
The crowds on the pave, some in haste 
And some richer in leisure than purpose 
And staring with insolence at their betters 
Or idly in at the rich display in shop windows; 
The little group of Salvation Army heroes ; 
Your markets, unresting, where consumer hunts 
Like a Daniel Boone of the new time; 
Your railroads, that bear from afar 
The wheat and rich fruits to fill you, 
And rough ores and lumber and leather 
To glut greedy maws of machinery 
Finishing wares to go back through the land, 
Spreading the proclamation that goods 
Made in Newark 
Are best — 

Your homes multitudinous, 
Prosperous, happy, 
Or clouded with pains of the body 
Or shadows of sin in the soul — 
Your turrets that gleam in the sun blaze, 
Your offices, schoolrooms and bookrooms, 
Hospital wards and museums, 

Here is the stuff of your life ! 

Here are the sources deep hidden 
Whence rills of influence issue 
1 06 



THE SOUL OF THE CITY 

To merge with the current, broad bosomed and laden 

with argosies — 
Not of commodity commerce only or mainly, 
But deep draughted, hull full of Newark, 
Weighted and freighted till Phimsoll marks vanish, 
Immersed in life's waters yet onwardly moving — 
The stream of the Spirit of Newark, 
Proclaiming her kin to the common, 
Yet making her Newark, none other! 

I say to you, seeing this vision, 

That he who shall take up your challenge, 

Having the soul of the poet — 

He who shall see you just as you are 

And clothe you splendidly in words, 

Shall be filled with the breathing of music 

And vibrantly utter 

The soul that is in thee, 

In Newark! 

And ye have done well to hang harps in the wind. 



107 



OTHER NEWARK ANNIVERSARY 
POEMS 

GRAVE AND GAY 



A SONG OF CITIES 

BABYLON and Nineveh 
1 Ephesus and Tyre, — 
These were names to thrill us once, 
Seeing, as we read, 
Wall and gate and citadel, 
Golden dome and spire, — 
All the glory that youth sees 
O'er the dust and dead. 

Cities of the lordly names: 
Sybaris, Damascus; 
Doubtless, too, their little lads 
Dreaming as we dreamed, 
Visioned older cities still, 
Far as ever theirs from us, 
Cities that their Grandsires built 
With words that glowed and gleamed. 

Babylon and Nineveh, 
Troy Town and Rome, 
Little did we think one day, 
Until we wandered far, 
How dearer and more dreamed of 
III 



A SONG OF CITIES 

The city of our home, — 
The commonplace, gray city 
Where yet our treasures are. 

Bagdad and Carthage 

Sybaris, Damascus, 

Babylon and Nineveh, 

Troy Town and Rome : 

You may hold my fancy still, 

Great names and glorious; 

But O, my commonplace, gray town, 

'Tis here my heart comes home. 

— Theodosia Garrison. 



112 



NEWARK'S MORNING SONG 

AT morn she rises early, as a busy city should 
That spends the hours of daylight in the game of 
"Making Good." 

Across the misty meadows she watches for the sun, 

For worlds of work are waiting, and there's wonders 
to be done. 

She takes a bit of breakfast, she dons her gingham 
frock, 

Then sits before her keyboard, with her eyes upon the 
clock ; 

And when the hands point seven, then loud and joy- 
fully 

She plays her morning anthem on her steam calliope. 

From Belleville down to Waverly, from Bloomfield 

to the Bay, 
She fills the morn with music as her chimes and sirens 

play. 
The piping trebles start the song, the tenors catch her 

air, 
The altos add their mellow notes, the brassy bassos 

blare ; 
Their thousand voices blend at last in one great living 

chord 

"3 



NEWARK'S MORNING SONG 

Of toil and usefulness and peace — a sound to please 

the Lord! 
Listen, O music lovers; was ever heard, think ye, 
A nobler tune than Newark's on her steam calliope? 

Now dawns a mighty era in the tale of her career, 

Now golden comes the sunrise of a new and glorious 
year; 

And, just as in the old days, her morning sirens call, 

"Up! Rouse you up, my children! There is happi- 
ness for all!" 

Yes, at this New Year's advent her whistles fill the 
morn 

As sound of heralds' trumpets when a new world- 
king is born; 

And the magic of her music shall set the thousands 
free 

Who follow to the calling of her steam calliope! 

— L. H. Robbins. 



114 



A VISION OF 1916 

THE bells rang music, but the blare 
Of trumpets made Four Corners sound 
Like some weird throng. Such clamor there 
The silent Training Place I found. 

Vague shadows hung about the shrine 
Long named Old Trinity. Among 
The trees where bending paths entwine, 
An antique figure moved along. 

A Founder looked he, but he said : 
"Call me the Spirit of the Town, 
Among the living, not the dead, 
Walk I unceasing up and down." 

"Good Spirit," said I, "what bright cheer 
To our fair city do you bring ? 
Spin us the vision of the seer, 
Just at the New Year's opening." 

An ember kindled in his glance, 
That soon shot forth prophetic fire; 
And then, with fervid utterance, 
Predictive spoke the ghostly sire: 
115 



A VISION OF 19 1 6 

"The manes and the stars foretell 

A greater Newark, till her fame 

Resplendent cast a wondrous spell 

On land or sea, where sounds her name!" 

Amazed heard I the gracious seer, 
Too good the augur seemed for true; 
But when I plead again to hear 
He turned, and waved his hand adieu. 

The bells still carolled, and the gleam 
Of lights electric kissed the snow — 
"Perhaps," mused I, "a hollow dream, 
If not, let Newark prove it so." 

— Joseph Fulford Folsom. 



116 



MONEY AND THE MUSE 

The Newarker for December sure is a publication 
de looks and damgood looks, too! 

However, I disagree, What I had intended say- 
ing was that I have just read the announcement of 
cash prize premiums for poetry and the divine afflatus 
is moved to the following outpouring of protest. 
Listen: 

O AY, Committee of One Hundred, 

^ Don't you think that you have blundered 

In offering a prize 
Of money — earthy treasure — 
For an inspirational measure 

Lifting Newark to the skies? 
Will a cash consideration 
Inspire the high elation 

Of Parnassian poetry? 
Will the food and drink of Mammon 
Be anything but famine 

To a poet's ecstasy? 
Say, Committee of One Hundred, 
Notwithstanding you have blundered 

And deserve the Muse's rod, 
117 



MONEY AND THE MUSE 

I may say to you with feeling, 
Deep, earnest and appealing, 

I'd love to cop a portion of your wad!! 

There, sir, that is poetry pure and undefiled and 
if you wish to print it in The Newarker as a warning, 
or even a hint, to other poets to get out of the way, 
and give us a chance, you may do so. It is really a 
prize winner poem, but I am giving it to you freely 
for the good of the cause ! ! ! 

With my best wishes, 

W. J. Lampton. 



118 



TO NEWARK! 

HAIL, Newark! Hail! 
Two hundred years plus fifty 
Is to you but growing time! 
And you have grown ! ! ! 
How you have grown 
Is wonderfully shown 
In what you are to-day, 
Not counting what you may 
Become if but a mite 
Of all your promised greatness 
Is fulfilled 
As it is billed 
To do 
For you! 
Hail, Newark! Hail! 

New Jersey's biggest and her best, 
Her fairest and her liveliest, 
Like wine and women, 
You improve with age, 
And all the ways and means 
Of velvet and of jeans, 
Of brain and brawn engage 
119 



TO NEWARK! 

To make you greater still, 

Until, 

Beyond the pale 

Of earthly progress, 

On the spirit gale 

Is borne the glory cheer: 

Hail, Newark! Hail!!!! 

W. J. Lampion. 



120 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
An Elegy 

HAIL, Lincoln, to thy spirit, upon this day, 
Which saw thy birth, and saw in thee a child 
Born for a mission beautiful, and laid, 
Like the babe Jesus, wrapt in lowliness, 
Upon the threshold of a shining year! 

Who but his mother round that little head 
Glimpsed the pale dawn of glory? Who but she 
Dreamed of a wondrous halo which he wore 
And trembling bowed and worshipped? Who but 

she 
Guessed all around him angels, robed with awe, 
And heard a whisper of seraphs? Ah, she knew! 
Knew as a mother knows, without surprise, 
Her son was born for saving of the sad ! 
What though on him shone no discovering star, 
Were not her eyes, her mother-beaming eyes, 
Yet fairer than the fairest orb in heaven? 
What though to him no pomp of pilgrim kings, 
Adoring, doffed the tribute of their crowns, 
Was not her homage precious as their gold? 
Thus with the dying swan's wild music, thrilled 
I2i 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

With love's prophetic rapture, she foresaw 
Him garmented with greatness, saw afar 
The future kneel before him. Then a mist 
Blotted the sun and blight fell on her dream, 
And she stood weeping in a lonely land. 

Bred in a low place, lord of little deeds, 

He learned to rule his spirit, and he grew 

Like the young oak with yearning for the sky. 

Yet on his face was sadness, as if grief 

Had chilled his singing childhood, ah, too soon, 

Or love with her heart-summer came too late! 

So with the world he wrestled for his life 

And labored long in silence, his gaunt frame 

Knotted with secret agonies; and so 

Struggled through darkness upward till he stood, 

Rugged and resolute, a man of men! 

The South was in his blood and kept it warm, 
And on his soul the winds of all the North 
Beat like a storm of eagles at a crag 
And left him granite. Then to his chaste heart 
The virgin West sang with a siren's voice 
And to her arms allured him, and he gave 
His deepest love and all his loyal strength. 
Thus with austere devotion he foreswore 
Plenty and pleasure, hewing through the wilds 
Brightening highways, founding the young state 
Upon that rock, the liberty of law. 
122 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

He was a man, amid the throng of men, — 
A simple man ! And though in him was seen 
A giant wrestler, strong and grapple-armed, 
Mighty in struggle, dauntless, one that loomed 
Invincible in battles of debate, — 
Yet all who knew him loved him, for he hid 
The hero with a smile, and seemed instead 
Only a king of kindness, showing thus 
Unto the proud the majesty of man, 
How more than king to be a common man! 
His life was one humility, and though 
The heights were his, he lingered in the vales, 
Yoked to a lowly service many years. 
Then came the call, the loud fierce upward call, 
And while the cloudy battle closed around, 
While Blue and Gray commingled in a mist 
Of glory, — then from his dare-kindled eyes 
The eagle stared, unquailing, and his look 
Like the resistless lightning flashed and flamed; 
Yea, from his heart as from a scabbard leaped 
The hero like a sword, and with one stroke 
Freed the last slave, and all the sleeping world 
Woke, and with one great voice of wonder cried, 
"This is a Man!" 

He knew what kindest word 
Would quicken hope and hearten the faint cause; 
Homespun his parables from life's rich loom, 
Were logical as Nature, and he made 
123 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

His gentle wisdom wiser with a jest, 

While humor like the laughing of the dawn 

Gleamed through the cloud that troubled his far eyes. 

Some called him homely who forgot to shine, 

Who, stooped by a vast burden, yet became 

Unto the homeless heart an open home. 

And as he walked through dreary human ways 

The sad, the poor, the lonely and the lost 

Followed his form with long-pursuing love, 

And all that saw him marveled, for they felt 

That some dear Christ had sweetened all the air. 

Then in that towering moment when he cried, 
"There are no boundaries," and as he bade 
Division cease and battle be no more, 
When all the happy, now the nation saved, 
Bugled of triumph, as he breathed his calm 
"Let there be peace," and peace was over all, — 
Even then he fell and left us desolate! 

But still he lives, for like a banner of gold 

His conquering name goes marching on to God; 

Who though he set in darkness rose again, 

Yea, like the rising universal sun 

Summed in one flame the dark-divided stars, — 

So on this day, above him, where he sleeps, 

Over his grave, united, with one grief, 

Lo, North and South clasp their forgetting hands ! 

— Leonard Charles Van Noppen. 
124 



LINCOLN STILL LIVES 

At almost any hour of the day children may be seen at 
play on Borglum's statue of Lincoln in front of the Court 
House at Newark. 

THIS mask of bronze cannot conceal his heart; 
The lips once eloquent here speak again ; 
The kindly eyes, where tears were wont to start, 
Look out once more upon the haunts of men. 

His image fits no dim cathedral aisle, 
Nor leafy shade, nor pedestal upraised, 

But here, where playful children rest a while 
Upon his knees, whom all the nations praised. 

Great in his strength, yet winsome as a child, 
Quick to his touch the childlike heart responds, 

As when his mighty hands, all undefiled, 

From dark-hued childhood's limbs struck off the 
bonds. 

O Death, unerring as your arrows be, 

High as the hills your hecatombs of slain, 
Against this Child of Immortality, ' 

O shame-faced Death, you speed your shaft in vain. 

— Charles Mumford. 
125 



A PRAYER 

GOD of a Thousand Christmas Gifts, 
For any hatred we have thought 
And any evil we have taught 
Or any misery we have wrought, 
Forgive us, now. 

God of a Thousand Christmas Trees, 
If, thro' the year, the wrong held sway, 
And better deeds were cast away, 
We pray Thee, on thy Holy Day, 
Forgive us, now. 

God of a Thousand Holidays, 

We humbly ask that we be sent 

A spirit true to good intent, 

So Gifts and Goodness may be blent . . . 

God of the Yule Tide, reign. 

— Henry Lang Jenkinson. 



126 



A CITY ON A HILL 

NEWARK! to-day begins thy lamp to shine 
With power high to flash the distant peaks 
With messages of hope. Thy gladness speaks, 
And lo! a nation's soul is knit with thine: 

A city on a hill thou art, a shrine 

Of homing pilgrims, who afar the streaks 

Of thy new dawn behold — a dawn that breaks 

Prophetic of a day without decline: 

Ah! may that gleam forever love reveal, 

That in the common heart lives warm and pure, 

And spends itself for all humanity; 

And may the dawning of a nobler weal 

Of spirit beauty, and of goodness, lure 

Our souls to light and civic sanity. 

— Joseph Fulford Folsom. 



127 



FROM THE SLOPE OF THE ORANGE 
MOUNTAINS 

PALE pillars in the distance, the spires of Gotham 
tower, 
The minarets of riches, the monument of power, 
Rimmed by the darkling river, where, nestled to the 

wall, 
To-day's brave golden galleons await the seaward call. 



Below, in nearer prospect, the bulk of Newark lies, 
A pulsing heart of commerce bared broadly to the 

skies, 
Low hang the clinging smoke-clouds, the toiling city's 

crown, 
Above the fires of Progress no tide of fate can drown. 

A giant of a city with all a giant's soul 
Roused into finite striving with grandeur as its goal — 
Before this wondrous vista I linger here enthralled, 
I must, for, see my motor — the artist drew it stalled. 

— Steuart M. Emery. 



128 



A SPRING SONG 

IS it wrong for the thrush to sing? 
Can the crocus keep back its bloom ? 
And shall not a soul that feels the Spring 
Break forth from its house of gloom? 

O passionate heart, be strong! 

Thou wert made, like the birds and the flowers, 
For music and fragrance the whole day long 

In the April light and showers. 

To every one it is given 

To love, and to hope, and to do; 
There's never a power on earth or in Heaven 

Can throttle a soul that is true. 

— Lyman Whitney Allen. 



129 



REMINISCENCE 

ONE morning at three o'clock 
I stood on the corner of Broad and Market, 
Newark. 
I had come from New York ; I was going to my home 

in Glen Ridge. 
I stood and waited for the Bloomfield Avenue car. 

The night 
Was cool and pleasant, and I enjoyed the sight of the 

boys 
Selling the morning papers; although I now confess 
To the thought that I had about those boys. I thought 
That they ought to be in 

Bed. Every boy ought to be in bed at that hour. Yet 
Here in America, we countenance such things. We 
Have a lot to learn, here in America. At that moment 
I viewed Newark in the light of a rising day. It 

seemed 
To me that a vision of the future projected itself 

across the 
Sky. There was so much life going on even then — 

the full 
Abounding American life that we see in our cities, with 

all their 

130 



REMINISCENCE 

Suffering and crime and injustice and marvelous energy. 
My friend^ has the thought ever come to you at night, 
In some large city, as you looked up at the stars 
And viewed the majesty of God, that 
That same majesty is forever visioned in the faces of 

the common 
Crowd? Think then of the radiance of honesty, of 

perseverance, 
Of dumb waiting for better things, of the glory of self- 
denial, of the 
Sharing-spirit. Think of that, brother, and incline 

thine 
Head humbly to the majesty of the Eternal 
Law. The car came, and I stood up all the way home, 

but 
I was glad that I had seen Newark on that night. It 

gave me a belief in its 
Destiny, an abiding faith in its promise to fulfil 
Its mission. I say this, knowing the grief in 
Homes, the patience and resignation under the ban 
Of toiling humanity. For out of the 
Light of the coming day there is a something, 
A Something that tells me that, as Browning says, 
God is in his Heaven and all's right with the world, 
And Newark. 

— Thomas L. Masson. 

Mr. Masson is an editor on Life. He is the author of much 
humorous verse and many essays. He lives in New Jersey 
and loves Newark. 

131 



ATTENTION, PLEASE: HERE'S COL. BILL 
LAMPTON AGAIN 

FOUND- — Our friend and assistant poet, Col. Bill 
Lampton, in church, asleep at sermon time, dream- 
ing of the Greater Newark that is to follow our Cele- 
bration. 

We ran a lost ad in the March Newarker and, lo! 
there was Bill in the next mail, cussing like the man 
in Kansas who couldn't sleep until he had gone out 
and called the pump the choicest names in the Kaiser's 
calendar. Cussing us, the Colonel mused: 

You gentle gorgonzola cub, 

You melancholy tramp! 

S'pose Col'nel Bill should grab a club 

And blink your bloomin' lamp ! 

You can plainly see what we would never see if Bill 
had reached our May-grey optics with his Kentucky 
club. These Southern gentlemen have a temper pre- 
served in alcohell. They light their cigars with it in 
the wind. They are, withal, very polite; the madder 
the politer, like our friend and preceptor in Maryland, 
who wrote to his raging creditor: 
132 



COL. BILL LAMPTON 

Suh: 

As my stenographer is a lady and I am a gentleman, 
I cannot dictate the precise form of my contempt for 
youh. But, suh, as you are neither, youh will under- 
stand! — Major Bunevitable Biff. 

However, Col. Bill's apology is accepted. His alibi 
will be duly considered when he visits Newark to smile 
upon the legends on the pylons. That sounds like 
medicine, but it isn't. It's just legends on the pylons — 
as before. 

We had to write the foregoing to prepare our readers 
for the terrible stuff Bill wrote to the plumbing editor 
of The Nezuarker. Here it is, addressed to "You 
Bald-headed Momus of the Meadows." Isn't this a 
nice Kentucky way of calling us a Farmer ! 

"To the Editor of The Newarker: 

Sir: In the March issue of your obscure sheet I 
find the following at the bottom of the column : 

LOST — Our friend and assistant Poet, 
Col. Bill Lampton, with tawny rubberset 
whiskers, last seen coming out of a suit of 
clothes, when we spent the evening (and $9) 
with him at a Manhattan prayer meeting. 
Finder please telephone The Newarker. All 
other papers please copy. 



133 



COL. BILL LAMPTON 

And while I take peculiar pleasure in stigmatizing 
most of it as a scurrilous slander and a libelous lambast, 
especially the $9, part which was borrowed from me 
on thus-far unkept promises, I will admit that I am 
lost: 

Lost in contemplation 

Of the wonderful display 
Of everything progressive 

By the Newark of to-day 
Contrasted with the Newark 

Which its founder, Robert Treat, 
Considered such a starter 

As never could be beat. 

Lost in admiration 

Of the Newarkistic way 
Of catching on to progress 

And of spreading a display 
At its coming Celebration 

As will make its rivals rave 
And the late lamented Robert 

To turn over in his grave." 

— W. J. Lampton. 



134 



SONNETS 

The Guests of Shakespeare 

LET Adoration, stilled with ecstasy, 
Now rest in reverence a little while : 
Mirrored within that nature versatile, 
Let Beauty see herself as others see; 
Let the whole world to Wonder bend the knee, 
And Sorrow pause the moment of a smile; 
Let Guilt be innocent of its own guile 
And Time be felt a brief eternity. 

Then with the Master let us feast: the Table 
Is set with tempting Visions; imps and elves 
Shall be our servitors, and Fact and Fable 
Shall sing a sprightly duet. And thereafter 
Shall Humor, guised as Falstaff, by wise laughter 
Make all the guests acquainted with themselves. 

To-Morrow 

To-morrow, ah to-morrow! What shalt thou, 
Veiled daughter of thy Mother called "To-day," 
Bring in thy hands of fortune or dismay? 
Shalt thou come with the laurel on thy brow 
135 



SONNETS 

Or with a crown of thorns? Shalt thou endow 
Eternity with some heroic lay 
Or like a stern avenger come to slay? 
Unveil thy face. For thou art poising now 

In thy sure hand a dart that shall send death 
To thousands in the instant of a breath ; 
Or a great Day thou grandly dost prepare 
Where patience shall behold the fruit of prayer. 
Song shall be heard or seen return of sorrow: 
So moves the world in silence towards To-morrow. 

Cathay 

I'll join a caravan to far Cathay 
And ride upon a camel to the moon. 
There I shall tilt with emperors and soon 
Untriumph them of trophies which I'll lay 
Before the Queen of Jewels. I shall slay 
Mythical dragons there or with a rune 
Of wild enchantment leave them in a swoon, 
Bearing their treasures, jade and pearls, away. 

And I shall lead, to plunder in high wars, 

Armies of images, and steal the stars. 

The Pleiades shall be my Golden Fleece; 

Orion be my belt; and for a crown 

I'll wear the sun ; and palaced in white peace, 

I'll reign with Beauty in serene renown. 



136 



SONNETS 

The Saraband 

The clink of castanets, the cadence wild 

Of rhythmic feet and swayings in the moon 

Of whirling figures gliding into swoon, 

Susurras languorous, where sorrows mild 

Sob on the breast of silence like a child; 

Then with fierce tones, barbaric, from that croon 

Leaps into revelry, a crimson tune, 

Trailing a troop of voices, that, beguiled 

By beauty into music, countermand 

The measure to a stately saraband 

Of Moorish girls that move with graceful motion 

Like swans that swim upon a mimic ocean: 

Superb of form and lithe of limb, they bound, 

Queening the revel to the cymbal's sound. 

— Leonard Charles Van Noppen. 



137 



FATHER NEWARK 

SWART with the grime of his crafts are the hands 
of him, 
Corded his muscles with energy stark; 
Stately the buildings and spacious the lands of him: 

Hall, fane and factory; meadow and park. 
Lofty his brow with the pride of his history, 
Kindled his eye with the light of his skill; 
Genius inventive that solves every mystery; 
Courage that wins by invincible will. 

Centuries two and a half has his story been — 

Years crowned with triumphs of labor and lore ; 
Burning undimmed has the lamp of his glory been ; 

Open to all men his neighborly door. 
Now he is bidding us all to rejoice with him — 

Sons of your sire, bound by filial vow, 
Each of you loyally lift up your voice with him; 

Join in the slogan of Newark Knows How! 

— William L. R. JVurts. 



138 



COL. BILL LAMPTON'S LAMP STILL 
GLOWS 

JUST when we think Col. Bill Lampton has been 
tucked away to sleep, he falls out of bed, makes 
a noise like the Epithetical Committee, and wakes 
everybody up — to laugh. 

"I can dream of a Greater Newark, 
And dream with a saving grace 
Which never seems 
To come to dreams 
Of another time and place, 
Because when I dream of a Newark 
Made greater by what you do 
In leading on 
To the glory dawn, 
I know that my dream will come true. 

There, you diaphanous distributor of discomanotions, 
stick that on your pylons — do pylons grow wild in New 
Jersey? — and give your readers a chance to judge 
between a Poet and a mere editor." 

— W. J. Lampton. 



139 



THE ALL-SUMMER CELEBRATION 

NOW every day in Newark 
Is a whoop tedoo den day. 
And every soul in Newark 

Seems to rather like that way, 
For it keeps the circulation 

Circulating, and the blood, 
Mixing with the clay of humans, 

Makes a living, lusty mud, 
Which is bound to be so fertile 

That for years and years to come 
The growth of coming Newark 

Puts all rivals on the bum, 
And the Newark of the future 

Is going to be so great 
That New Jersey of the future 

Will be changed to Newark State. 

— W. J. Lampton. 



140 



THE MESSAGE OF THE MASQUE 

THE lights are out; the rainbow pictures fade; 
Their magic beauty and their color-flow 
And rhythmic grace no eye again shall know; 
'Tis ended now, the lovely masquerade, 
And those who, wondering, looked, and those who 

played, 
Back to the busy commonplace they go, 
To toiling life that moves so dull and slow; 
And silent darkness cloaks the parkland glade. 

The rainbow pictures fade; but still there gleams 
The rainbow hope to hold us to our dreams; 
And lowly toil grows beautiful and bright 
As hearts urge forward to the coming light; 
And men in lifelong memory will see 
The vision of the city that shall be. 

— L. H. Robbins. 



141 



REWARDS 

OEE, here am I — in hell at last. 
^ Experience through me hurtled fast. 
On earth I worked — while shirkers croaked. 
There I was roasted — here I'm smoked. 

"Cheer up!" Sly Sycophantis cried; 
"I stabbed you too — before you died!" 



14a 



THE FALLEN PAGEANT STAR 

Time: i A. M. 

Temperature: Just Freezing. 
Wind Velocity: Rooseveltian. 

/^\H, if 'twould only thaw upon this stage, 
^-* And cold raw winds would even once abate 
Upon our Pageant shanks and unprotected skins — 
Then would our love remain — unturned to rage 
At May's mad blasts — while Poet Tom, unagitate, 
Gently megaphones at our dramatic sins 
And begs us never mind the Arctic gusts 
That pneumonize our necessary busts! 

Never again shall our ambitious roles include 
The part of Herald to this gay old Town, 
Until fair Newark's thirty-first of May 
Shall be so balmy as to singe the nude 
In art — from sombre Puritan to clown — 
Or tog us up in buskins lined with hay. 

And yet, that Civic Germ we would sustain — 
May lure us out — to do our worst again. 

— The Editor. 

Night of May 3, 1916. 



143 



MATT'S JOLLY PAGEANT CAR 

/""\UR red official pageant car was something very 
^^ spry, 

It had twelve years' experience, its spirit wouldn't die. 
It wheezed in front and sneezed behind and snorted 

ninety ways, 
In playing its peculiar parts in Newark's pageant days. 

Each day it hauled us to the Park it got us in a fight, 
In fact, we agitated somewhat every bloomin' night. 
It hurtled o'er the populace and dodged around the cops, 
Then nimbly ran upon the hoofs of several hundred 
wops. 

Matt Stratt, its jolly chauffeur man, sat at the wheel 

and spat 
Into the ambient atmosphere or on a passing cat; 
And just to show that he was Matt, right here and 

there and hence 
He swatted at the Park Police and charged clean 

through a fence. 

One night the car had asthma and a kind of chest 

disease ; 
Its soul had gone to thunder in an apoplectic sneeze; 
144 



MATT'S JOLLY PAGEANT CAR 

And Matt while diagnosing what was meant by its new 

whine, 
Declared that our old pageant car had curvachewing 

spine. 

But somehow it stayed on the job, much more than 

some had done 
Who now claim pageant honors which our workers 

really won; 
Nor was it pessimistic, pussyfooting through the town, 
While howling down the Pageant with a caterwauling 

frown. 

Lor' bless that battered pageant car and keep it on 

the go. 
Please doll it up in brand new paint and fix it up 

below. 
Don't let the scrap heap get it — we've affection in our 

heart ! 
For Stratton's cheerful spavined car that nobly did its 

part. 

— The Editor. 



145 



"DIVIDENT HILL" 

PAUSE here, O Muse ! that Fancy's eye 
*- May trace the footprints still, 
Of men that, centuries gone by, 

With prayer ordained this hill; 
As lifts the misty veil of years, 

Such visions here arise 
As when the glorious past appears 

Before enchanted eyes. 

I see, from midst the faithful few 

Whose deeds yet live sublime — 
Whose guileless spirits, brave as true, 

Are models "for all time," 
A group upon this height convened — 

In solemn prayer they stand — 
Men, on whose sturdy wisdom leaned 

The settlers of the land. 

In mutual love the line they trace 
That will their homes divide, 

And ever mark the chosen place 
That prayer hath sanctified; 
146 



"DIVIDENT HILL" 

And here it stands — a temple old, 
Which crumbling Time still braves; 

Through ages have their cycles rolled 
Above those patriots' graves. 

As Christ transfigured on the height 

The three beheld with awe, 
And near his radiant form, in white, 

The ancient prophets saw ; 
So, on this summit I behold 

With beatific sight, 
Once more our praying sires of old, 

As spirits clothed in light. 

A halo crowns the sacred hill, 

And thence glad voices raise 
A song that doth the concave fill — 

Their prayers are turned to praise! 
Art may not for these saints of old 

The marble urn invent; 
Yet here the Future shall behold 

Their Heaven-built monument. 

— Mrs. E. C. Kinney. 



HI 



CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD 

HERE'S the spot. Look around you. Above on 
the height 
Lay the Hessians encamped. By the church on the 

right 
Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a 

wall.— 
You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball. 
Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers 

blow 
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. 
Nothing more did I say ? Stay one moment : You've 

heard 
Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the Word 
Down at Springfield? What? No! Come, that's 

bad. Why he had 
All the Jerseys aflame. And they gave him the name 
Of the "rebel high priest." He stuck in their gorge, 
For he loved the Lord God — and he hated King 

George ! 
He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians 

that day 
Marched up with Knyphausen they stopped on their 

way 

148 



CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD 

At the "Farms" where his wife, with a child in her 

arms, 
Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew 
But God — and that one of the hireling crew 
Who fired the shot! Enough! There she lay 
And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband away! 
Did he preach — did he pray? Think of him as you 

stand 
By the old church to-day; think of him and that band 
Of militant plow-boys! See the smoke and the heat 
Of the reckless advance — of that struggling retreat! 
Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view — 
And what could you — what should you, what would 

you do? 
Why just what he did! They were left in the lurch 
For want of more wadding. He ran to the church, 
Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in 

the road 
With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down 

his load 
At their feet! Then above all the shouting and shots 
Rang his voice: "Put Watts into 'em, boys; give 'em 

Watts." 
And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers 

blow 
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago; 
You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball, 
But not always a hero like this — and that's all. 

— Bret Harte. 
149 



NEWARK'S ACROSTIC 

1666 

Naiad and nymph in the forest are roaming; 

Everglades echo their unearthly tread; 

Weird are their songs and their forms in the gloaming; 

Answering voices or shades of the dead. 

Rudely the Indian 'neath wigwam and bower 

Kneels in submission to Ignorance-power. 

1916 

Newark is now in the vigor of manhood. 
Eye of a Mentor, and brain of a State; 
Wielding a sceptre that banishes clanhood, 
And makes us all kith, and akin to the great. 
Rugged the heights from whose summits this hour 
Ken we the vision that Knowledge is power. 

— Wm. J. Marshall 



150 



THE NEWARK CELEBRATION 

"VTO man can know 
•*• ^ The greatness of the Show — 
That is to say, 
No man to-day 
Can know 

The greatness of the Show, 
But in the future all the land 
Will fully know and understand 
What Newark, in this year of grace, 
Has done to give herself a place 
Among the leaders who express 
By deeds the meaning of success 
Along all lines of brawn and brain 
Which count for best in best of gain! 
What has been done these Summer days 
Has moved the spirit that will raise 
Conditions, which exist to-day, 
Above themselves, and on the way 
To that rich prize which energy 
Confers in perpetuity. 
No man can know 
The greatness of the Show 
Until the future brings 
151 



THE NEWARK CELEBRATION 

The harvest of those things 

Which count for greatness, 

Make the sum 

And substance of the good to come. 

That much is known, 

That much is shown, 

And on this victory won, 

The universal verdict is: 

WELL DONE ! ! ! 

— W. J. Lampton. 



152 



THE BARD'S COMPLAINT 

I DREAMED a dream the other night 
That left all others "out of sight;" 
Around the Kinney building surged 
A mob of wild-eyed men, who verged 
On panic, if a panic grow 
From masses struggling to and fro. 

The mob was decorous if wild, 
As cultured gentlemen, beguiled 
By visions of good things, though faint, 
Would keep their hunger in restraint, 
Although, when appetites are keen, 
And limbs are shrunk, and ribs are lean, 
A well-filled board, in time of need, 
Will tempt an anchorite to feed. 

These men, who thus besieged the Kinney, 
(All far from fat, and mostly skinny), 
Though eager as a hound in leash, 
Were strangely reticent of speech. 
With well-groomed men they would not pass 
For fashion-plates, for they, alas! 
Were chiefly garbed in sombre black, 
153 



THE BARD'S COMPLAINT 

Of cut and style a decade back; 
Their "pants" (those of a later pattern) 
Shone like the sun (the parts they sat on), 
While rusty coats and hats betrayed 
The pinching of the wearers' trade. 

One thing I'll say, and oft repeat, 
These men, in dress so incomplete, 
For classic nobs could not be beat 
Within a league of Market Street. 
Though seedy most, yet here and there 
Was one who looked quite debonair; 
"O-ho!" I cried to one of these, 
Who sauntered 'round, quite at his ease; 
"Pray tell me," (for my sense grew hazy) 
"Have all these gentlemen gone crazy?" 
"O, no," he said: "Each one's a poet; 
"(Though all their verses do not show it.) 
"They're here because a dozen prizes 
"In brand-new bills of different sizes, 
" — One thousand plunks in all, I hear, 
"Though it does sound a little queer — 
"Are offered to the poets who 
"Can put in odes the best review 
"Of Newark's glorious career 
"For this, her Anniversary year. 
"There'll be a ton of rhymes, at least, 
"For gods and men a bounteous feast." 

154 



THE BARD'S COMPLAINT 

"One thousand — what!" I shouted: "Whew! 
"You're guying me; it can't be true! 
"How can some humble poets hope 
"To get away with so much dope?" 

He said (and confidential grew) : 
"It is the truth I'm telling you ; 
"But bards are few of either sex 
"Who ever see a double X. 
"Do'st know why poets fare so ill, 
"While plodding tradesmen get their fill?" 

I answered: "No; tell me." He said: 

" 'Tis competition with the dead. 

"The heroes of the shop and plow 

"Have only rivals living now 

"To test their wits, while every man 

"Who wrote in verse since time began, 

"Is just as much alive to-day 

"As when he turned his toes up (say) 

"Some forty centuries away! 

"You surely know it is not so, sir, 

"With your shoemaker and your grocer! 

"Had Homer dealt in ducks and geese, 

"His fame long since had found surcease. 

"Could eggs of Virgil's day compete 

"With fresh-laid eggs on Commerce Street? 

"Yet fresh-laid poets of to-day 

"Find ancient bards blockade their way!" 

155 



THE BARD'S COMPLAINT 

Just then the crowd thinned out; a few 
Received their checks; the rest withdrew 
To brush their threadbare coats anew. 

A sunbeam through my window broke 
And touched my eyes, and I awoke. 

— Charles Mumford. 



156 



ROBERT TREAT 

THEY'VE Robert Treat dramatics 
And a Robert Treat cigar, 
Our beer — the pride 'o Newark's sons 

Is "Treated" near and far; 
They tack his name to fads and frills, 

To hats and brands of sfyoes, 
And Robert Treat's the slogan 

On some groceries we use. 
We've got a Robert Treat hotel, 

Our pride to-day, you bet, 
His name's upon a Newark school 

And soon a cigarette. 
And e'en the highest hope of every 

Newarker we meet, 
Is to name his "nineteen sixteen boy" 

A Junior Robert Treat. 
Thus, should the shade of dear old Bob 

Appear to us to-day, 
What shock must greet his eyes to see 

His name in such display. 
The Hallelujah Chorus 

May not chant his name aloud, 
But still we'll bet Bob Treat is famed 

Up where the angels crowd. 

— Allen F. Brewer. 
157 



BROAD STREET 
(1666-1916) 

WHEN lilacs bloom in urban bowers, 
Sweet harbingers of summer hours, 
And cherry-blossoms lightly fall 
Like snowflakes by the garden wall; 
When robins hide in apple-trees, 
And pansies nod in every breeze, 
And like cathedrals, tall and grand, 
Our hoary elms majestic stand, 
While underneath the current flows 
Of human joys and human woes, 
Then seems the street a mighty stream 
On which we mortals drift and dream. 
Here toiled the Fathers in the fields, 
Where earth her truest treasure yields, 
And here the Sons, with reverent eyes, 
Behold a royal harvest rise. 
Yet ever, 'neath the starry cope, 
The radiant barges Love and Hope 
Move side by side with Grief and Care, 
And all the flotsam of Despair. 
In vain the pilots seek to force 
158 



BROAD STREET 

Their way against the current's course, 

And where they're bound, or whence they came, 

Nor sage, nor bard can ever name. 

And none of all the fleets that glide 

Along the weird and heaving tide 

Turn back their prows or ever teach 

What Port the later Pilgrims reach. 

— Augustus Waiters. 



159 



APPENDICES 



APPENDIX I 

CONDITIONS OF THE NEWARK POETRY 
COMPETITION 

The Committee of One Hundred offers a series of 
prizes, aggregating $1,000, for poems on Newark and 
its 250th Anniversary and plans to publish the best of 
the poems submitted in a volume to be entitled, "New- 
ark's Anniversary Poems." 

In this competition all the poets of our country are 
invited to participate. 

The prize poem on Newark and its Anniversary may 
touch on any or all of such topics as, the City's historic 
aspects, its rapid industrial development, its civic and 
educational features, the chief purpose of its cele- 
bration, — which is, to develop a wider and deeper 
public spirit. 

Newark is not all industries, smoke, rush and din. 
It is a great centre of production and in its special 
field of work is alert and progressive. But it has also 
beautiful homes, fine parks, admirable schools, a useful 
library. Its thousands of shade trees are the envy of 
many cities. The cleanliness of its highways surprises 
even the Newarker himself. It has a good govern- 
163 



APPENDICES 

ment, churches in plenty and many worthy clubs and 
societies. Art and science, even, are not altogether 
neglected here. Newark is an old town, solid and 
conservative and tenacious of certain old-time peculiari- 
ties. Newark, with 400,000 people, the largest city 
in New Jersey, though known to all the world as a 
producer of honest goods, is still to that same world 
quite unknown as to its own special quality among 
American cities. Will the poet, the man of insight 
and of prophecy, kindly come forth and discover her 
to the world and to herself? 

There are many interesting phases in Newark's life 
and in its celebration. All are within the field of the 
inspiration of the poet we are seeking. To make our 
volume interesting, its verses should touch on a wide 
range of subjects. The wits as well as the philosophers 
have their opportunity here. We think our city al- 
ready quite worthy! Now we seek a poet who shall 
make us famous! If with him comes one who makes 
us ludicrous — and he does it well — to him also we can 
award a prize! 

Conditions of Poem Competition 
The poets of our country are invited to submit poems 
on Newark in competition for thirteen prizes in gold. 
First Prize — two hundred and fifty dollars. 
Second Prize — one hundred and fifty dollars. 
Third Prize — one hundred dollars. 
Ten prizes of fifty dollars each. 

164. 



APPENDICES 

The Historical and Literary and the Publicity Com- 
mittees of the Committee of One Hundred have charge 
of this competition, and have established therefor the 
following rules: 

Poems submitted for the competition must not con- 
tain more than one thousand words. 

They must be typewritten on one side only of sheets 
of paper of letter size, about 8 by 1 1 inches. 

They must reach the office of the Committee on or 
before June I, 191 6. 

They must be enclosed in sealed envelopes bearing 
only the name and address of this Committee. 

They must not bear the names of their respective 
authors. 

Each must bear a fictitious name or a distinctive 
mark. 

This fictitious name or distinctive mark must be 
placed also on the outside of a second envelope. 

Within this second envelope must be a sheet of paper 
bearing the author's name and address, and this second 
envelope must be sealed and enclosed with the poem, 
in the envelope, addressed to the Committee. 

A competitor may submit two or more poems, but 
only one prize will be awarded to any author. 

The poems will be judged and the prizes awarded 
by a committee of seven named by this Committee, and 
the envelopes containing the names of the authors will 
not be opened until the prizes have been awarded. 

The specific subject, the meter and the style of the 

165 



APPENDICES 

poems are left entirely to the judgment of their authors. 
They may be historical, biographical, philosophical or 
topical in subject matter; they may be serious, humor- 
ous or satiric in manner; they may be epic, lyric, or 
narrative in form. On all these matters are placed no 
restrictions whatever, and this Committee and the 
Judges are agreed that the prizes should be awarded 
with reference primarily to sheer poetic quality. Good 
poetry, as that phrase is to-day usually understood by 
persons of experience in such matters, is what is sought 
by this Committee, and this the Judges hope to discover 
among the contributions submitted, and to this, in so 
far as it is found, the prizes will be awarded. 

The Committee shall have the right to publish from 
time to time any of the poems submitted, and it shall 
be the owner of the poems for which prizes have been 
awarded, together with those which it may have in- 
cluded in its volume entitled "Newark's Anniversary 
Poems." 

The following have accepted the Committees invi- 
tation to serve as judges in this competition: 

From Newark: Hon. Frederic Adams, Judge of 
the Circuit Court, State of New Jersey; Hon. Thos. L. 
Raymond, Counsellor-at-Law, and Mayor of Newark; 
Miss Margaret Coult, Head of English Department, 
Barringer High School; William S. Hunt, Associate 
Editor, Newark Sunday Call. 

At large: Prof. John C. Van Dyke, Professor 
History of Art, Rutgers College; Lecturer Columbia, 
1 66 



APPENDICES 

Harvard, Princeton; Author; Editor: "College Histo- 
ries of Art"; "History of American Art"; — New- 
Brunswick, New Jersey. 

Thomas L. Masson, (Tom Masson), Literary 
Editor Life; Author; Editor "Humorous Masterpieces 
of American Literature." 

Theodosia Garrison, Author: "The Joy of Life 
and other Poems"; "Earth Cry and other Poems"; 
Contributor to Magazines. 

The prize poems, with a selection from those sub- 
mitted but not receiving prizes, will probably be 
published about May I, 191 7, in a volume to be called 
"Newark's Anniversary Poems." 

Address all communications to the Editor of The 
Neivarkerj Committee of One Hundred, Newark, New 
Jersey. 



167 



APPENDIX II 

SUGGESTIONS TO POETS, IF THEY WISH 
TO SING OF NEWARK 

Newark is not well known. Many thousand travelers 
haye gained quite an erroneous view of its character. 
They pass through it on a train and appraise it by 
the view they get from a car window as they pass. 

Newark is old, for an American city, — 250 years. 
This is not to its credit, for Newark's presence on 
earth has not hastened or retarded the flight of years! 
Its age is not the cause of its Celebration, but merely 
the occasion therefor. 

Newark is large, about 400,(300 inhabitants. It is 
not celebrating its size, though its increase of thirty per 
cent in each of the past six decades suggests that it has 
had, in that period, either an admirable vigor or certain 
attractive features, or both. Still, its size is not the 
cause of its celebration activities, rather the opportunity 
therefor. 

Newark began life as the last project of theocracy in 

America, and bears the marks of its birth to this day. 

But it does not celebrate for this reason. One may, on 

the contrary, almost venture the thought that it cele- 

168 



APPENDICES 

brates now its approaching day of freedom from the 
bonds of theocracy and of fuller enjoyment of the best 
fruit of that very same theocracy's wise teachings. 

Newark is veiy industrious, but is not entirely in- 
dustrial. 

Newark is on the edge of vast stretches of sea-touched 
marshes; but rests for the most part on certain very 
admirable hills — hills which the hurrying car-window 
student neither sees nor believes to exist. 

But Newark is not celebrating her industry, or her 
high-set homes, or any other of the excellencies to 
which in her less modest moments she rather reluctantly 
confesses. 

Newark is celebrating in the hope that her people 
may thereby be led to take note of themselves, to dis- 
cover that they form a live and active thing, a Modern 
American City; that this live creature, their city, has 
its own potencies and powers, and that it can therewith 
do excellent things for its own people, and that it ought 
to do them. 

In a word Newark celebrates, not because it is so 
excellent a city, but in the hope that it may become 
much more excellent. 

Let the poets come, if they kindly will, and prick 
the tender bubble of our self-esteem, and also, if they 
kindly will, give us something that will stir us so to 
conduct our city that our self-esteem may at length 
come to be only a proper pride in civic things well done. 



169 



APPENDICES 

The above is from the Free Public Library of New- 
ark, which will gladly furnish to all inquirers infor- 
mation about Newark's past, present and future. 



170 



APPENDIX III 

BIOGRAPHIES OF PRIZE WINNERS 

Clement Wood 

was born in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Educated in the 
Taylor School and Birmingham High School; A.B., 
University of Alabama, 1909; LL.B., Yale Law 
School, 191 1. After two years' practice of law, he 
came to New York, where he has adopted writing as 
a business, with teaching as a side-line. During this 
time he has conducted columns in the Call and the 
Evening Mail in New York, and has published poems, 
critical essays, and stories in various periodicals. He 
has also lectured, and given readings from his own and 
other works. His first volume of poetry, "Glad of 
Earth," was published by Laurence J. Gomme (N. Y.) 
in the autumn of 191 6. 

Anna Blake Mezquida 

was born in San Francisco and was educated there. 
She is a genuine Mayflower descendant and her ances- 
tors on both sides fought in the American Revolution. 
As a child she was fond of composing verses, stories 
171 



APPENDICES 

and little plays and was a contributor and editor of 
various school publications. When barely sixteen years 
of age her first poem was published, winning the first 
prize in a local poetry contest. Other minor poetry 
prizes followed. Owing to ill-health she was unable 
to continue in literary work until 191 5. In that year 
her poem, " The Wondrous Exposition," was selected 
as the Exposition Song from among over two thousand 
contestants in a competition conducted by the San Fran- 
cisco Call Post. During 191 5-1 6 the following poems 
by this author were published : "My Sweetheart," in 
Romance; "Drums" and "The Flower on the Sill," in 
the All Story Weekly; "The Two Spirits," "The Red 
Hell," "Christ My Guide," and "A Sonnet," in the 
Pacific; and "The Meaning of Love" in Munsey's 
Magazine. An article, "The Door of Yesterday," was 
published in the Overland Monthly and a short story, 
"The Tiptoe House," in the Sunset Magazine. She 
still contributes to various magazines. 

Albert Edmund Trombly 

was born in Chazy, New York, 1888. Five years later 
his family removed to Worcester, Massachusetts, and 
there Mr. Trombly was educated. He was graduated 
from the Worcester State Normal School in 1910. In 
19 1 3 he took his A.B. at Harvard, and since then has 
been instructor of Romance languages in the University 
of Pennsylvania. At the latter university he received 
the M.A. degree in 1915. His published works in- 
172 



APPENDICES 

elude: "The Springtime of Love" (Sherman, French 
& Co., Boston, 1914) ; "Love's Creed" (Sherman, 
French & Co., 1915) ; "Songs of Daddyhood" (Bad- 
ger, Boston, 19 1 6), and poems and articles contributed 
to various periodicals. 

Katherine Baker 

is a daughter of Ex-Representative J. Thompson Baker, 
of New Jersey, and a graduate of Goucher College. 
Collier s, Scribners, Independent, Life and other maga- 
zines have accepted her stories and verses and the 
Atlantic has published a half-dozen essays, one of which, 
"Entertaining the Candidate," describing an incident 
of Woodrow Wilson's first Presidential campaign, the 
magazine reprinted this summer in a volume called 
"Atlantic Classics." 

Simon Barr 

was born in London in 1892 and educated in private 
schools and East Ham Technical College. He came 
to the United States in 1907. He studied chemical 
engineering at* Columbia University School of Mines. 
He was editor of the Columbia Monthly 1909—13, 
editor-in-chief 19 1 3, and class poet 19 13. The same 
year he joined the editorial staff of the Municipal 
Journal, became circulation manager and later assistant 
editor, which post he now holds. He has contributed 
to numerous newspapers and magazines. He has been 
associated with a number of social researches, includ- 

173 



APPENDICES 

ing the subjects of vocational guidance and feeble- 
mindedness. In 1915-16 he made the third war sur- 
vey for the Newark Evening News. 

Berton Braley 

was born in Madison, Wisconsin, in 1882. He sold 
his first verse when about seventeen years old. He 
won a good many prizes and was editor of the Uni- 
versity of Wisconsin Sphinx and the Literary Maga- 
zine. In 19 15 he went to Butte, Montana, and be- 
came a cub reporter on the Inter-Mountain, now the 
Evening Post. He afterwards joined the editorial staff 
of the Evening News of Butte, remaining there for 
about three years. Came to New York in 1909 and 
free lanced until he became associate editor of Puck. 
In the vacations during his college career he has done 
numerous and sundry jobs such as selling books, clerk- 
ing, passing coal on the Great Lakes, digging ditches, 
acting as attendant at an insane asylum, guard in a 
prison, farm hand, ditch digger, miner, and various 
other "situations round the world." These positions 
gave him an insight into working conditions and work- 
ing men's viewpoints that has a good deal to do with 
the success he has achieved in singing of men who do 
the world's rough jobs. His published works are: 
"Sonnets of a Suffragette" (F. G. Browne, Chicago), 
"Songs of the Workaday World" (Geo. H. Doran), 
and "Things as They Are" (Geo. H. Doran). 



174 



APPENDICES 

Sayers Coe 

was born in Newark, 1891. He graduated from New- 
ark Academy in 1908 and from Princeton in 19 12. In 
that year he was class poet. He is assistant editor of 
the Mentor. Several short poems have appeared in 
various magazines and newspapers. He has lived in 
Newark all his life. Some of his ancestors were among 
Newark's early settlers. His namesake, old Sayers Coe, 
was one of the leading citizens of the city, following the 
Revolution. Another ancestor fought in the Revolu- 
tion. 

Haniel Long 

was borri in Rangoon, Burmah, in 1888. He grad- 
uated from Phillips Exeter Academy in 1906 and from 
Harvard in 19 10. For a year he was reporter on the 
New York Globe and has since taught at the Carnegie 
Institute of Technology, Pittsburgh, where he is now 
assistant professor in English in the School of Applied 
Design. 

Minnie Reynolds 

Her first published writing was in the form of min- 
ing news in the Denver papers from a tiny, lost, forgot- 
ten, mining hamlet, named Pitkin, hidden two miles 
above the sea level in the mountains of Colorado. She 
was teaching school there in a log-cabin schoolhouse. 
On Saturdays she would get her horse and ride off 
among the hills to the various mines and prospects 
175 



APPENDICES 

round about. The miners would give her quail and 
venison dinners and fill her full of wonderful stories 
about their prospects, which were duly published and 
paid for by Denver papers. Later she worked on small 
daily papers in Aspen, Colorado, then for eight years 
on the Rocky Mountain News of Denver, the oldest 
and largest paper in Colorado. After she came east 
her work, poems, short fiction and special articles, ap- 
peared in almost every newspaper in New York: Sun, 
Times, Tribune, Press, Globe, Post, and others. Also 
in Collier s, Independent, World's Work, Delineator, 
Munsey's, Forum, Everybody's, Ainslie's and other 
magazines. Two of her books have been published, 
"The Crayon Clue," a novel (Mitchell Kennerley, 
N. Y.), and "How Man Conquered Nature," a study 
in the evolution of civilization for young people (Mac- 
millan). Two histories by her are to be published by 
Macmillan this fall: "The Vanishing Frontier" and 
"The Gold Rush." She helped to get the vote for 
women in Colorado and was a voter there. She was 
executive secretary, New Jersey Women's Political Un- 
ion during three years' suffrage campaign in New Jersey. 

Alice Meade Rouse 

cannot give us biographical details but writes the fol- 
lowing to the editor: "I was born Alice Meade of 
Virginia and married Shelley Rouse, a Kentucky law- 
yer; have an interesting menage and a peach of a daugh- 
ter, Shelley — she, but the adaptation of a Mary tem- 
176 



APPENDICES 

perament to a Martha job according to the dictates of 
an early American conscience has not been conducive 
to the production of volumes. My writing has been 
only desultory magazine work. I suspect the shade of 
a valiant Jerseyman, one Col. Shepard Kollack, of the 
Revolution, one of the New Jersey Cincinnati and a 
literary man himself, must have persuaded the Newark 
judges to be kind to my verses." 

Edward N. Teall 

was born in Brooklyn in 1880. Graduated from 
Bloomfield High School to Princeton (class of 1905). 
He is the author of "Glories of Old Nassau," a verse 
history of the College of New Jersey, "Vagron Verses" 
(Badger). Contributions from him have appeared in 
Scribners, St. Nicholas and (as Owen Terry) the Sun. 
Since 1903 has been on the editorial staff of a New 
York morning newspaper. 

James H. Tuckley 

a native of Cincinnati, Ohio, is the son of the late 
Henry Tuckley, author, syndicate, occupant of Meth- 
odist pastorate in Cincinnati, Providence and Spring- 
field, Massachusetts, and at his death Methodist dis- 
trict superintendent at Binghamton, New York. He 
is a graduate of the public school of Springfield, Massa- 
chusetts and of Wesleyan University. While at col- 
lege he was a class poet, associate editor of the Wes- 
leyan Literary Monthly and of the college annual, 

177 



APPENDICES 

winner of university awards in Greek archaeology and 
English essay ; winner, also, of the Taylor prize for the 
best original poetry, the last previous recipient being 
Frederic L. Knowles, whose poems are represented in 
Stedman's American Anthology. He was correspond- 
ent of the Springfield Republican and the Hartford 
Times, and wrote for other newspapers, his contribu- 
tions including, besides sporting accounts and general 
news, a poem and a political editorial. Mr. Tuckley 
gave up journalism for teaching and has been grammar 
vice-principal, supervising principal, high school prin- 
cipal, and for five years teacher of English in Newark 
High School. He is a member of the Delta Tau 
Delta college fraternity. He is also a member of the 
Old First Church, Newark. 

Ezra Pound 

was born in 1885. He is the author of a considerable 
number of volumes. In 1909 "Personae" was pub- 
lished, followed by "Exultations" (1909), "Canzoni" 
(19,11), "Repostes" (1912). In 1913 these books 
were published in a two-volume edition. An Ameri- 
can edition of some selections was published under the 
title "Provenca" (1910), "Cathey" (1915) and "Lus- 
tra" (19 1 6) completes the list of his original poetic 
works. His prose works consist of "The Spirit of Ro- 
mance" (Dent, 1910), "Gaudier Brzeska" (Lane, 
1916), and selections from the papers of Ernest Fenol- 
losa. Certain noble plays of Japan (191 6) (Cula 

178 



APPENDICES 

Press) . "Noh," a study of the classical stage of Japan, 
is to be published by Macmillan shortly. In 1912 he 
published his translation of "The Sonnets and Ballate 
of Guido Cavalcenta." He has edited two anthologies, 
"Des Imagistes" (1913), and "The Catholic Anthol- 
ogy" ( I 9 I 5)> an( l contributed to Blast, the Quarterly 
Review., the Fortnightly Review and Poetry. 



179 



APPENDIX IV 

COMMITTEE OF ONE HUNDRED 
CITY OF NEWARK, NEW JERSEY 

Franklin Murphy 

CHAIRMAN 

D. H. Merritt 

TREASURER 

Matthias Stratton 

SECRETARY 

Uzal H. McCarter 

CHAIRMAN EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE 

James Smith, Jr. 

VICE-CHAIRMAN 

Alexander Archibald 

HONORARY SECRETARY 

James R. Nugent 
counsel 

Henry Wellington Wack 

EXECUTIVE ADVISER 

His Honor Thomas L. Raymond 

MAYOR 

Former Mayor Jacob Haussling 

HONORARY MEMBER 

I 80 



APPENDICES 



Alexander Archibald 

George B. Astley 

Charles Bradley 

Gen. R. Heber Breintnall 

Albert H. Biertuempfel 

Joseph B. Bloom 

Philip C. Bamberger 

Angelo R. Bianchi 

Edward T. Burke 

Stanislaus Bulsiewicz 

James F. Connelly 

John L. Carroll 

Rt. Rev. Mgr. Patrick Cody 

William H. Camfield 

Joseph A. Carroll 

Frank W. Cann 

William I. Cooper 

Forrest F. Dryden 

Dr. William Dimond 

John H. Donnelly 

Richard Denbigh 

Alfred L. De Voe 

Patrick J. Duggan 

Henry M. Dorernus 

Daniel H. Dunham 

Laban W. Dennis 

J. Victor D'Aloia 

Mrs. Henry H. Dawson 

Frederick L. Eberhardt 

Charles Eytel 

John Erb 

Christian W. Feigenspan 

Rev. Joseph F. Folsom 

Rabbi Solomon Foster 

John R. Flavell 

William H. F. Fiedler 

Louis A. Fast 

Henry A. Guenther 

Albert T. Guenther 



John F. Glutting 
Edward E. Gnichtel 
George J. Gates 
Augustus V. Hamburg 
Herman C. Herold 
William T. Hunt 

C. William Heilmann 
Richard A. Hensler 
Henry Hebeler 

Mrs. Henry A. Haussling 

Miss Frances Hays 

Richard C. Jenkinson 

Leopold Jay 

Mrs. Fred C. Jacobson 

Nathaniel King 

Gottfried Krueger 

William B. Kinney 

Dr. Joseph Kussy 

J. Wilmer Kennedy 

William O. Kuebler 

Rt. Rev. Edwin S. Lines, D.D. 

Charles W. Littlefield 

Carl Lentz 

Franklin Murphy 

Uzal H. McCarter 

D. H. Merritt 

Rev. T. Aird Moffat 
William J. McConnell 
Anton F. Muller 
John F. Monahan 
John H. McLean 
John Metzger 
James R. Nugent 
John Nieder 
Peter J. O'Toole 
William P. O'Rourke' 
John L. O'Toole 
Edward J. O'Brien 
Patrick C. O'Brien 

181 



APPENDICES 



Benedict Prieth 
Louis Pfeifer 
Michael J. Quigley 
Thomas L. Raymond 
John F. Reilly 
Dr. Samuel F. Robertson 
George F. Reeve 
Fred H. Roever 
Morris R. Sherrerd 
Edward Schickhaus 
James Smith, Jr. 



George D. Smith 
Julius Sachs 
Ernest C. Strempel 
A. A. Sippell 
J. George Schwarzkopf 
Bernard W. Terlinde 
Charles P. Taylor 
Frank J. Urquhart 
Dr. A. G. Vogt 
Christian Wolters, Jr. 



COMMITTEE OF THREE HUNDRED 



Richard C. Adams 
David T. Abercrombie 
Frank T. Allen 
Henry Allsopp 
Thos. Allsopp 
Jos. O. Amberg 
Lathrop Anderson 
A. Archibald 
John L. Armitage 
Louis V. Aronson 
Charles Ashmun 
Albert H. Atha 
Benj. Atha 
Willis B. Atwater 
Chas. C. Bacon 
C. W. Bailey 
Cyrus O. Baker 
F. A. C. Baker 
S. T. Baker 
William Bal 
Clifton B. Baldwin 
R. J. Ball 
Louis Bamberger 
Jas. B. Banister 
Chas. H. Barkhorn 



Hugh C. Barrett 
Julius Barthman 
Frank E. Bergen 
Henry Bergfels 
Otto Bernz 
Norbert Bertl 
J. O. Betelle 
Frederic Bigelow 
J. O. Bigelow 
Nathan Bilder 
W. A. Birdsall 
J. H. Birkett 
W. A. Bishop 
Wm. Bittles 
Theo. E. Blanchard 
B. H. Blood 
Frank J. Bock 
H. A. Bonnell 
Phillip J. Bowers 
Fredk. A. Boyle 
Charles Bradley 
Robt. B. Bradley 
Andrew Brueckner 
John Bruenig 
John Buhl 



182 



APPENDICES 



Wm. F. Burleigh 
Jos. M. Byrne 
Jos. M. Byrne, Jr 
I. L. Calvert 
John F. Capen 
William Cardwell 
John L. Carroll 
W. T. Carter, Jr. 
W. T. Carter 
John F. Cassidy 
Alfred N. Chandler 
Jos. V. Clark 
Jas. A. Coe 
Morrison C. Colyer 
A. W. Conklin 
J. F. Conroy 
Albert B. Cosey 
Jos. M. COx 
W. A. Cox 
D. M. Crabb 
Fred A. Croselmire 
Gilbert S. Crogan 
Jas. Crowell 
I. Newton Davies 
Waters B. Day 
Chas. R. De Bevoise 
Jos. W. Deerin 
Wm. S. De Mott 
Richard Denbigh 
Alfred L. Dennis 
Harold Dennis 
Laban W. Dennis 
Geo. M. Denny 
Chas. A. Dickson 
Wm. Dimond 
Frank S. Dodd 
Paul C. Downing 
Edgar B. Drake 
Frank G. Du Bois 



l8 3 



Edw. D. Duffield 
Fred Eberhardt 
Rev. E. F. Eggleston 
Fred W. Egner 
F. Ehrenkranz 
A. N. Eisele 
John C. Eisele 
Leo P. Eisele 
John H. Ely 
Wilson C. Ely 
John Erb 

Russell M. Everett 
Wm. S. Fairchild 
Dudley Farrand 
Louis A. Fast 
Jos. L. Feibleman 
Chris. Feigenspan 
E. C. Feigenspan 
Abe Feist 

Ernest J. E. Fiedler 
Fred A. Fiedler 
Wm. C. Fiedler 

E. F. Fielding 

C. Louis Fitzgerald 
Christian Fleissner 
Alex. R. Fordyce 
Rabbi Solomon Foster 
Geo. G. Frelinghuysen 

F. C. Frentzel 
Henry H. Fryling 
Felix Fuld 
Winton C. Garrison 
Frank H. Genung 
Scott German 

Carl August Giese 
Edward E. Gnichtel 
R. J. Goerke 
August Goertz 
Thos. Goldingay 



APPENDICES 



David Goldsmith 

N. Goldsmith 

John K. Gore 

Edward Gray 

Edward W. Gray 

Arthur W. Greason 

Horace C. Grice 

David Grotta 

Arthur J. Gude 

A. J. Hahne 

Thos. F Halpin 

A. V. Hamburg 

Willard I. Hamilton 

John R. Hardin 

E. H. Harrison 

Richard Hartshorne 

Harry C. Havell 

Edgar J. Haynes 

Henry F. Hays, Jr. 

A. O. Headley, Jr. 

Walter C. Heath 

Andrew J. Hedges 

Arthur R. Heller 

John E. Helm 

Morris Herbst 

Chas. F. Herr 

Chas. E. Hetzel 

Harrison S. Higbie 

Jas. S. Higbie 

J. H. Hill 

Harry C. Hines 

P. L. Hoadley 

Chester R. Hoag 

Wm. J. Hodgkinson 

Clarence Hodson 

Dr. Chas. W. F. Holbrook 

Chas. Hood 

Louis Hood 

John Howe 



Julius Huebner 
J. Wm. Huegel 
T. Cecil Hughes 
Wm. S. Hunt 
Paul H. Jaehnig 
Geo. W. Jagle 
Leopold Jay 
Walter T. Johnson 
Willard S. Johnson 
Henry P. Jones 
Edmond S. Joy 
Harry Kalisch 
Isidore J. Kaufherr 
Edw. Q. Keasbey 
John F. Kehoe 
Thos. F. Kennedy 
Fred J. Keer 
Rufus Keisler, Jr. 
Wm. B. Kinney 
Geo. F. King 
Henry J. King 
H. R. Kingsley 
J. Frank Kitchell 
Geo. W. Ketcham 
Littleton Kirkpatrick 
Albert S. Koenig 
Edwin G. Koenig 
Dr. Chas. F. Kraemer 
Philip Krimke 
Wm. C. Krueger 
Edwin F. Kulp 
Meyer Kussy 
Frank Lagay 
Geo. H. Lambert 
Halsey M. Larter 
Cyrus F. Lawrence 
Fred'k R. Lehlbach 
Wm. E. Lehman 
Chas. W. Lent 



184 



APPENDICES 



Siegfried Leschziner 
Ernest Levy 
Robert Levy 
Franklin L. Lewi 
Louis Lippman 
Benj. P. Lissner 
Leo R. Lissner 
J. R. W. Littell 
Howard G. Lord 
L. H. Lord 
Milton Lowy 
Dr. Otto Lowy 
E. C. Lum 
John W. Lushear 
Thos. N. McCarter 
L. J. McCracken 
J. Charlton McCurdy 
Graham B. McGregor 
Donald M. McGregor 
David A. Mclntyre 
Spencer S. Marsh 
Franklin F. Mayo 
Ludwig F. Mergott 
Eugene Merz 
Fred'k F. Meyer 
Stephen W. Milligan 
W. S. Moler 
Ferd R. Moeller 
John Monteith 
Frank P. Montgomery 
Geo. W. Munsick 
Nathan Myers 
A. C. Navatier 
Arthur J. Neu 
J. R. Nugent 
Dennis F. O'Brien 
John B. Oelkers 
W. W. Ogden 
R. A. Osborne 



l8 5 



Dr. Henry Ost 
James Owen 
Geo. Paddock 
Chauncey G. Parker 
Cortlandt Parker, Jr. 
R. Wayne Parker 
Dr. Fred'k M. Paul 
Albert H. Peal 
Arthur Phillips 
Louis Plaut 
L. Simon Plaut 
Moses Plaut 
Stephen H. Plum 
H. B. R. Potter 
N. H. Porter 
A. Leslie Price 
E. A. Putnam 
J. J. Radel 
Henry Rawle 
M. Reichman 
Jas. E. Reilly 
Jas. M. Reilly 
Isaac F. Roe 
H. C. Rommel 
Wm. P. Rommell 
P. Sanford Ross 
Robert L. Ross 
Roland T. Ross 
O.' Fred'k Rost 
Abraham Rothschild 
A. E. Sandford 
Wm. Scheerer 
Wm. Scheffenhaus 
Ralph B. Schmidt 
Herman C. Schuetz 
Albert Schurr 
S. Semels 

Jas. M. Seymour, Jr. 
J. H. Shackleton 



APPENDICES 



Morris R. Sherrerd 
Jehiel G. Shipman 
Geo. H. Simonds 
Alfred F. Skinner 
James Smith, Jr. 
J. Henry Smith 
Morey W. Smith 
Wm. A. Smith 
Fred. E. Sommer 
Fred N. Sommer 
G. F. Sommer 
Wm. M Sommer 
Edward M. Stirling 
Frank A. Sterling 
Charles Stopper 
Matthias Stratton 
Ernest C. Strempel 
C. Edgar Sutphen 
Jean R. Tack 
Chas. P. Taylor 
Walter G. Thacher 
H. C. Thompson 
Wm. G. Trautwein 
Harry Unger 
Harrison R. Van Duyne 



Edward N. Van Vliet 
H. M. Van Sant 
Dr. F. H. Van Winkle 
F. C. Van Keuren 
Edw. M. Waldron 
C. Herbert Walker 
Edw. T. Ward 
Robertson S. Ward 
William Weiner 
Levi Weingarten 
O. L. Weingarten 
J. Fred'k Wherry 
Chas. L. Whiteneld 
B. S. Whitehead 
Borden D. Whiting 
E. Alvah Wilkinson 
W. A. Williamson 
Edw. W. Wollmuth 
W. B. Wood 
A. M. Woodruff 
Joseph Wotiz 
Edwin C. Young 
Roger Young 
Stuart A. Young 
Leonard B. Zusi 



THE COMMITTEE OF FIFTY 



Mrs. George Barker 

Chairman 
Mrs. Galen J. Perrett 

Vice-chairman 
Miss J. Isabelle Sims 

Secretary 
Mrs. Henry Young, jr. 

Treasurer 
Mrs. John L. Contrell. 

Chairman Hospitality 
Committee 



Mrs. Frederick S. Crum 
Chairman Schools Com- 
mittee 
Mrs. Solomon Foster 
Chairman Philanthropy 
Committee 
Mrs. John W. Howell 
Chairman Religion Com- 
mittee 



1 86 



APPENDICES 



Miss Alice Kirkpatrick 

Chairman Pageant Com- 
mittee 
Mrs. Franklin Murphy, jr. 

Chairman Entertainment 
Committee 
Mrs. L. H. Robbins 

Chairman Publicity Com- 
mittee 
Mrs. Frank H. Sommer 

Chairman Women's Clubs 
Committee 
Mrs. Henry G. Atha 
Mrs. Louis V. Aronson 
Mrs. Joseph M. Byrne 
Mrs. Fredk. C. Breidenbach 
Mrs. Jos. B. Bloom 
Mrs. John L. Carroll 
Mrs. A. N. Dalrymple 
Mrs. Henry Darcy 
Mrs. R. Dieffenbach 
Mrs. Spaulding Frazer 
Mrs. Chr. Feigenspan 
Mrs. H. R. Garis 



Mrs. R. Arthur Heller 
Mrs. Charles F. Herr 
Mrs. R. C. Jenkinson 
Mrs. Nathan Kussy 
Mrs. William B. Kinney 
Mrs. Jennie B. Kingsland 
Mrs. Albert Lynch 
Mrs. Robert M. Laird 
Miss Margaret McVety 
Mrs. E. Erie Moody 
Mrs. Fredk H. Mooney 
Mrs. Uzal H. McCarter 
Mrs. William P. Martin 
Mrs. James R. Nugent 
Mrs. Benedict Prieth 
Mrs. Chauncey G. Parker 
Mrs. Charles J. Praizner 
Mrs. A. Rothschild 
Mrs. Edward S. Rankin 
Mrs. E. J. Stevens 
Dr. Sara D. Smalley 
Mrs. Francis J. Swayze 
Mrs. T. Mancusi Ungaro 
Mrs. A. Van Blarcom 



187 



Deacidif ied using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: „ _ 

DEC 




MEEEER 



PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES, L.P. 
1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



